After Anya
by PeonyWheeler3
Summary: What if Gleb never went back to Russia? Where will he go? Who will he meet? Will he ever be able to pick up the shattered pieces of his life and put them back together?
1. Chapter 1

Gleb closed the door and stumbled down the passage. He didn't make it far. The lightheadedness hit him again and he leaned against the wall of the corridor. His heart was pounding and he closed his eyes. All his senses were screaming to him to leave the palace grounds, but once again, he just couldn't. Not yet anyway.

Behind his closed eyelids, he could still see her: proud, defiant, sure. But more than anything was the complete fearlessness with which she had viewed death as he held the pistol before her breast.

It had been his father's pistol. Mikhail Vaganov had always carried with him and it was the one he had used on that fateful night in the Ipatiev House. Mikhail had left the pistol to his son upon his death and Gleb had always treasured it in memory of his father. They had never been close, but he had always admired Mikhail from a distance and sought to be like him. When he died, Gleb undertook to carry on his father's legacy. This legacy meant destruction and death for all who opposed the Bolshevik cause. For almost seven years he had been loyal both to this cause and his father's memory. Then Anya arrived.

From their first meeting in the streets of newly-renamed Leningrad, Gleb had found himself strangely attracted to Anya. It wasn't just that she was beautiful, though she certainly was. There was something about her that made him feel awkward and shy. No one had ever made him feel that way before.

Shortly after their first meeting, Anya was arrested and brought to his office. The charge was that she had taken up with some conmen who were planning on using her to scam the old Dowager Empress, who still lived in Paris. The plot planned to have Anya accepted as the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova. Afterward, the conmen would undoubtedly take the reward money for her return and then vanish without a trace, Gleb had thought disgustedly.

Though he had tried hard to retain a professional aspect, Gleb was afraid that his discomfiture and shyness had become obvious. He had warned her of the dangers of such a false and traitorous game and she had seemed to take the warning to heart. Soon afterwards, however, Gleb had received an account of how Anya was still working with the two conmen and shortly after that, the report that all three had disappeared.

Immediate action had been taken and the trio was very nearly caught. They escaped only by jumping off the train they were on, foiling the officers sent to apprehend them. Despite his devotion to the Bolshevik cause, Gleb had been secretly relived. He knew that if Anya had been caught there was little or nothing he could do to help her. The thought that he should want to help such a turncoat confused him and he was angry with himself that he could be so easily distracted from his duty.

Then Commissioner Gorlinsky had called him to his office and ordered him to track Anya and the conmen to Paris. If she turned out to simply an impostor, he was to bring her back so that they could make an example of her. If she _was_ in fact the Grand Duchess however, he was to make sure that the Romanov legacy was ended once and for all.

That was why Gleb had chosen to take Mikhail's pistol with him when he had set out after Anya. His heavy heart needed to be reminded of where its loyalties lay. She was a traitor, wasn't she? She was pretending to be a dead Grand Duchess! Or was she? Gleb had tried to force aside the what-if's that came crowding into his head, but with little success.

Then the confrontation: her utter terror at his sudden appearance that had become fearless surety as he held his father's pistol to her breast; the steely regality of her face as she looked him in the eye and said the fatal words: "I _am_ the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova." Her eyes had taunted him, daring him to pull the trigger, but his finger had refused to move. Then the lightheadedness had washed over him like a wave and he had dropped to his knees feeling weak and sick. Then he felt her hand on his head and her voice, softened to pity. "I mean you no harm, Gleb." He caught her hand as she turned away…

Voices. They were coming in his direction. Best to clear out while he still could. With an effort, Gleb opened his eyes and stepped away from the wall he had been leaning on. The world was a little steadier now. He shook his head slightly to clear it and then winced as the movement caused another wave of dizziness. He needed to get out of here. And a drink of water.


	2. Chapter 2

How he got back to his room, Gleb never knew. When he found himself there, he went over and sat that the desk and rested his head in his hands. He had not been sitting for more than a few seconds when he abruptly straightened up again. It came to him like a clap of thunder that it would be impossible for him to go back to Russia. He would be killed almost at once. The word that he had failed to fulfill his mission would get out no matter how carefully he guarded it.

If he had been calm and composed, Gleb would have sat and coolly surveyed his options. As it was, in his current state, he simply returned his head to his hands. To make things worse, he suddenly realized that if he didn't go back immediately, then it was almost certain that he would never see Russia again. Russia was the only place that he had ever called home, the place where he had grown up, where all his memories were. Gleb felt damp on his hand and he lifted his head impatiently. This was no time to be acting like a little child! He stood up abruptly, shaking his head, and when over to his suitcase. With a sigh, he opened one of the inner pockets, and drew out the writing materials that he had brought along. If he wasn't going back to Russia, at least his superior would have an explanation.

**-xxxx-**

It was nearly midnight. The feeble gas light shone faintly over the desk and the pile of crumpled papers that surrounded it. Gleb sighed in frustration. H reached over and turned up the flame, then returned his focus to the letter. His adjustment to the gas did little to improve the dusky state of the desk. Finally, at quarter after twelve he gave up. Pushing back his chair, he got up and went over to the bed.

"I need light to think," he muttered. "These Parisians don't seem to know what it means."

He was at it again by quarter to seven the next morning. Finally finishing the letter to his satisfaction, he signed it, sat back, and read it through:

_ Deputy Commissioner of Leningrad Gleb Vaganov to Commissioner of Leningrad Borislave Gorlinsky _

_ Comrade: _

_ Upon thorough examination of the case of the supposed Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova impersonator, I have, by my authority as Deputy Commissioner of Leningrad, cleared the woman in question, Anya, of the charges of impersonation of royalty that where laid against her. _

_ While it is my hope, comrade, that this report reaches you, I cannot promise the same for myself. Through circumstances that I cannot speak of at present, my situation here has become complicated. It will be difficult or impossible for me to return in the near future. If there are any changes in my situation that allow my return, I will be certain to communicate them to you to the best of my ability. At present, I can see no hope of this. I am as always_

_ Respectfully,_

_ Deputy Commissioner of Leningrad Gleb Vaganov_

Gleb sighed. It was all true. His situation in Paris had deteriorated rapidly. Even worse, it was because of his own stupidity. He was angry with himself, angry with Anya, and angry at the Romanovs for refusing to stay dead. If their legacy could not be destroyed by a Bolshevik firing squad, how could a silly idiot like himself finish it? The knowledge that this was an excuse for a failing that was entirely his fault, did not improve his mood. Neither did the fact that he had eaten nothing since his hurried lunch the previous day.

Not daring to venture far from his hotel, Gleb ordered breakfast from the kitchen. He surveyed it rather coldly when it first arrived, but he was far too hungry to care for long. Over breakfast, Gleb took out the map that he had brought with him and surveyed the countries around France. He could go to Germany, he mused, or Spain. Then he frowned. While he spoke passable French, his knowledge of German was limited to such phrases as "hello", "goodbye", and "where can I find a bathroom?". These, while useful, would not be enough to go by and Germany was still a little too close to Russia for comfort. On the opposite side of France, however, he encountered the same problem. He knew even less of English than of German and of Spanish, he knew nothing at all.

_I suppose I can get a language book and study my brains to pieces for a few days,_ he thought_, but the longer I stay, the more dangerous it becomes and the harder it will be to get out. I _must_ get out of Paris at least. I'll go south. At least that is facing away from Russia._ The thought pricked like a thorn.

Several hours later, Gleb stood on the station platform, his collar up and his hat pulled low over his face. The weather had changed, and though it was spring in Paris, a fine, cold rain was falling steadily. The station loudspeaker announced the departure of his train and Gleb clambered aboard among the press of chicly dressed, dripping people. He noticed uncomfortably that his well-built frame, considered very tall in Russia, caused him to practically tower above these fancy French people. He hunched down in his seat, hoping that his posture would make him less noticeable, but he felt miserably certain that he still stuck out like a sore thumb, if only for his clothes.

Before he left for Paris, appropriate clothes had been procured for him, but one did not exactly travel in fancy dinner clothes and he had been forced to wear his rather plainer traveling costume from early on in his route from Leningrad to Paris. It was wool, of course, and the extra warmth that had been so friendly before now only served to add to his discomfort. He stared morosely out of the window.

By the time the train reached the town where he had decided to stay the night, Gleb was cramped, cross, and had a headache from the strong perfume that the woman next to him wore. She had desperately tried to make conversation with him at first, but finding him unresponsive to her efforts, she attacked the man on her other side who received her attentions with a more affable attitude. Her fastidious accent and chirping voice, as well as her perfume, were cloying. She also seemed to vastly enjoy turning to Gleb and asking his opinion on something she had said and then winking flirtatiously, until he had to fight the urge to either scream or order her to stop. _Not that either would do much good, of course,_ he mused bitterly, _and both would draw unwanted attention._

Nothing had ever sounded more welcome to Gleb Vaganov than the voice announcing his stop. He picked up his small bag and stood up. Glancing down, he saw the disappointed face of the perfume-covered lady.

"Partez-vous si vite?" she asked with an air of petulant disappointment. He gritted his teeth in annoyance and didn't answer. As he tried to step over her she grabbed his arm. Gleb's patience snapped. He jerked his arm away and glared at her fiercely. He had not been in a military position most of his life for nothing. The woman sunk back in her seat, lowering her eyes, and muttered something under her breath. Not waiting for more, Gleb stepped over her legs and those of the man on the aisle seat and walked toward the entrance as briskly as the general push and his stiff limbs allowed.

...

Partez-vous si vite - Are you leaving so soon?


	3. Chapter 3

Gleb stepped out of the train and onto the little station's open platform at the back of the small crowd. The platform was slippery with rain, but the sky was beginning to clear and the setting sun shone directly in his face. He squinted forward, trying to walk with a hunch to disguise his height and also not run into anyone. The one was very uncomfortable on his already cramped back and the other was impossible in the crowd, small though it was.

Being bumped and jostled only served to make his temper shorter. As he approached the stairs that led off the platform, Gleb was pushed to its very edge by a small, bald Frenchman who was apparently determined to get off the platform before everyone else. As he tried to regain his balance, the man next to him was jolted by a porter and bumped into him. Gleb was pushed off the platform. The drop was nearly a meter and as he stepped down his foot landed in a deep hole. The ground was slippery and the jerk caused him to fall sideways, his head narrowly missing the platform's edge, and causing his trapped ankle to twist.

There was an audible snap and Gleb bit back a cry and quickly rolled over to take the pressure off his ankle. He lay for a moment, his face in a wince, then sat up and pulled his foot from the hole, gasping a little at the pain. He looked at his ankle with a sinking heart.

It was twisted in such a way that he knew it was broken. Even in his pain, however, he felt the panic rising up. He couldn't afford to break his ankle! He needed to get out of the country. If he couldn't walk, then he couldn't travel, and if he couldn't travel, then he would be caught and killed!

He forced himself to push the thoughts aside and focus on the present. How was he supposed to get out of the place where he had fallen? He glanced up at the platform and saw a young women keeling on the edge looking at him, her expression concerned.

"Oh, monsieur, sommes-vous blessé?"she asked.

It took Gleb a moment to translate her words to himself, and then formulate a French response.

"Oui, je le pense," he answered, gritting his teeth. The pain from his ankle made it hard to focus.

"Oh, non!" She sat on the platform's edge and slipped down beside him. She knelt down and began to examine his ankle. As she touched it, he flinched and swore in Russian under his breath. The girl looked up surprised.

"Parlez-vous russe?" she asked.

Gleb frowned, annoyed with himself for his slip. He debated denying it but dismissed the idea. His accent would soon give him away anyway.

"Yes," he said in Russian. "Do you?"

The girl sat back on her heels and smiled.

"Indeed I do," she replied. "My mother is Russian and we speak it at home.

"Oh really?" He meant for his tone to be conversational but it sounded rather strained which only served to remind the girl of the matter at hand.

"I'm afraid your ankle is broken," she said. "It looks pretty bad. Let me help you get up and you can pull yourself back onto the platform."

Not knowing what else to do, Gleb nodded. She took his hands and helped him up. His foot bumped a tussock as he did so and he smothered another oath, sitting down quickly on the edge of the platform. He clenched his teeth, staring off into the distance.

"Where were you figuring on heading?" the girl asked after a moment. Gleb shrugged then winced.

"I don't know," he said. "I've never been in this part of the country before. Do you know of any good inns in the area?"

The girl's face blossomed into a smile.

"I'll say," she chirped, "my parents own one and a very good one at that: _L'Auberge du Miroir_."

"How far away is this _Auberge_ _du_ _Miroir_?" Gleb asked dubiously as another wave of pain flooded his ankle.

"Oh, not far," the girl frowned down at his foot, "but I'll have to splint that with something. This isn't going to be comfortable for you, I'm afraid."

_You don't say so!_ Gleb thought to himself, but he only raised his eyebrows in agreement. The girl searched around in the bushes that grew near the platform. She soon found two stout sticks that she broke to size with her knee. Walking back to the platform, she opened her bag which she had left there and, after some rummaging, took out what appeared to be a roll of linen bandages.

"My mother has always said that you should carry some kind of medical kit with you when you travel. Now I see why," she added and Gleb nodded.

"Your mother is a wise woman," he said. She smiled.

"She is indeed. She's the best mother in all of France. Oh, I'm Elena Dassin, by the way."

"Gleb Vaganov," he responded immediately and then mentally recoiled. He had just given his name, his _real_ name, to a total stranger! Of all the stupid…! His inner self-berating ceased abruptly as he heard her saying, "I'll have to put the splint on outside your shoe. I dare not take it off. Now don't attack me," with a hesitant smile, "this is going to hurt."

For the next two minutes, Gleb was so focused on his ankle that he had no time to think of the matter and by the time that Elena had finished her skillfully-made ankle splint, he was in too much pain to care. Who would have thought that a simple broken ankle could hurt like this! He kept his teeth clenched, grasping the edge of the platform with white-knuckled hands and pretended that he was under the eyes of his military superiors.

When Elena had finished, she surveyed her handiwork and then looked up anxiously at his face. He had not made a sound, but she could tell by the tension there that it had not been comfortable for him. She shuddered to think of what the setting would be like but pushed the thought resolutely aside. She let him sit for a few minutes in silence and then tentatively suggested that they try to head for the inn. He sighed and nodded.

"Yes, it's getting late," he observed looking around at the fading light.

Elena climbed up onto the platform and picked up her satchel.

"Is this your luggage?" she asked, pointing to where he had dropped his bag when he fell.

He managed a nod and reached out his hand for it. She gave it to him then held out both her hands.

"Let me help you stand," she said.

Using her as a support, he dragged himself upright, frowning at the pain it caused him. Still, he was able to stand on one leg if he used her shoulders as a support. He hopped and then winced.

By the time that they had left the station and gone perhaps twenty-five meters into the town, Gleb was sweating. His ankle was pulsing and every hop jarred it worse than the one before. He muttered to himself every now and then and Elena, glancing upward at his tense face, felt bad for him. He was bearing it bravely, but she could see that his foot hurt badly. She looked back toward the street and her heart sank. It was true that the inn was not far from the station in normal circumstances. It was also true that acting as a crutch for a tall, heavy man to whom every step is painful were not normal circumstances.

Gleb could never say afterwards how they made it to _L'Auberge_ _du_ _Miroir_, except that they did. As it was, it was dark by the time they reached it.

Elena brought him to a back door which opened onto a busy kitchen filled with people. As soon as the door was opened, however, everyone was clustered around, talking and exclaiming in an excited combination of Russian and French that made Gleb's tired head spin. Elena led him to a chair and he sat there in daze while she gave a brief but concise explanation of the circumstances. The doctor was sent for immediately. When he arrived and Gleb had been helped to a room, she stood by and assisted to doctor with capable hands throughout the painful procedure that followed.

**-xxxx-**

The doctor took his leave after some final instructions and went out, closing the door behind him. Gleb lay back on the pillow. If he was honest with himself, he felt sick to his stomach. He had not made a sound while the doctor was at work, but his face was pale and drawn.

Elena looked at him from where she stood by the door. He lay there like he had no strength left and his eyes were closed.

She walked to the bedside. _I can't imagine what that was like for him. It was no easy setting, having to reposition the bones twice like that, _she thought to herself. Without really meaning to, she reached out and touched his shoulder comfortingly as if he was one of her siblings. He opened his eyes in surprise and she stepped back, embarrassed at her own impulsiveness. Gleb saw her expression and gave a weak smile.

"Thank you," he said simply. Elena smiled back uncertainly.

"I'll be nearby. If you need anything just call," she said, her voice a little unsteady. She turned and left, leaving the door slightly ajar so that she could hear if he called.

Outside in the hall, Elena took a deep breath, leaning against the wall to steady herself. As someone who was deeply empathetic, she found it very difficult to cause even necessary pain to someone. She had kept up a calm façade while the doctor was there, forcing herself to focus on the job at hand, and had done whatever he had told her to do. Now that it was all over, however, she was shaking like a leaf. She gave herself a few moments then ran her hand over her rumpled hair and headed down the stairs.

Gleb felt like a sick child. Tiredness from the strain of the past few days came crashing down on him, drowning him in exhaustion. Gleb closed his eyes and fell into a dead sleep.

...

Blessez-vous? - Are you hurt?

Oui, je le pense. – Yes, I think so.

Parlez-vous russe? – Do you speak Russian?

_L'Auberge du Miroir _– The Mirror Inn

* * *

**A/N - Updated version! The more I reread the older chapters, the more I see that needs fixing. :l Cheers!**


	4. Chapter 4

The morning light was shining in his window. Gleb went to stretch and then groaned as the movement hurt him, snapping him wide awake and causing the memory of last night to come flooding back.

From what he remembered of the doctor's verdict, two of three of the bones in his ankle had been badly broken. In addition, the ankle itself had also been dislocated. This complication, when added to the severity of the injury and the resulting trauma to the ligaments and tendons, meant that he would be unable to use his right foot for several months. In spite of the pain, panic had filled him, making it even less easy to bear. He _needed_ to get out of France. If he couldn't walk then he couldn't go anywhere.

Even worse, with his foot he couldn't even get to the post office with his letter for Gorlinsky. There wasn't the slightest chance that he would entrust such a letter to just anybody. There was Elena of course, but could he depend on her that much? As it was, she already knew his real name. He had been entirely too trusting with her already, he thought sourly.

Seemingly in response to his thought, Elena poked her head in the door. Seeing that he was awake, she pushed it open. In her hands she carried a loaded tray which she set down on the table beside Gleb's bed. She walked to the window, tied back the curtains, and unlocked it, opening the panes. The soft, fresh-smelling morning breeze blew in. It was cool but not unpleasantly so.

The delicious blend of smells wafting up from the tray made Gleb realize just how hungry he was. Carefully, he dragged himself into a sitting position, propped up by his pillows and the wall behind the bedhead. He began inspecting his breakfast. There were two small flaky pastries, a bowl of fresh berries, and some hot scrambled eggs.

"I didn't know whether you would want coffee or tea with your breakfast so I decided to wait until I could ask you. Which do you prefer, monsieur?"

Gleb looked up quickly.

"Black coffee, please," he said eagerly. Elena smiled.

"Black coffee it is. I'll be back in a few minutes."

She turned and left the room, shutting to door behind the time she returned with the coffee, Gleb was cheerfully attacking his breakfast or at least what was left of it. Elena set down the coffee tray and laughed.

"I'm glad to see you liked your breakfast," she said. "I made the coffee Russian style. The French stuff is different from what you are probably used to and I want you to feel at home."

Gleb fought to keep his smile. Nowhere was his home now. The word seemed to drive the thorn of sorrow, fear, and longing deeper into his heart. Still, he thought, she was only trying to be kind. He thanked her and switched his attention to the coffee. It was exceptionally brewed and he savored it appreciatively.

"Excellent," he said. "It's not every day that you can have your coffee made by an expert."

She blushed at his praise.

"Mother taught me how to make it the Russian way. She says that she can't abide French coffee. Too sweet. I make it for her nearly every morning so I have plenty of practice," she said.

"Didn't I say that your mother was a wise woman?" Gleb grinned and Elena laughed.

"I'll have to tell her you like it," she said. "I have to go back down to help with the morning serving, but I'll come back as soon as I can. Do you have any books you like? The library is actually quite good and there is nothing like a book to help pass the time."

"I do like reading, but I don't think many of the books I know would be in a library in France," Gleb said.

His voice was a little more abrupt than he had meant it to be. Elena hesitated a moment and then spoke.

"I have a few Russian books myself," she said self-consciously, "but I don't know if they would interest you. They are mostly fairy books and fantasies from when I was younger. There _are_ a few practical ones thrown in, but they are mostly on things like cheese-making, gardening, and animal husbandry."

Gleb thought for a moment.

"Do you have _T__ale of a Mammoth and an Ice-Man_?" he asked his voice also self-conscious. His taste in literature was a soft point for him. He had always been ashamed of his love for fiction. Elena's face brightened into a surprised smile.

"Yes, I do," she said happily. "I didn't realize that men liked that type of story. My father only ever reads the newspaper."

Gleb shifted uncomfortably.

"Most don't," he said. "It's an oddity of mine. Do you like those kinds of stories?"

"Oh yes!" she replied, "though everyone in my family thinks I'm crazy so I don't talk about it much. I'm glad to find that I'm not alone. Now I really _must_ go before I get too interested to leave. I'll try to bring that up for you when the morning bustle has died down."

With that, Elena hurried out.

Gleb smiled then frowned. Here he was getting distracted again! _T__ale of a Mammoth and an Ice-Man_? He didn't have time for that kind of thing. He was a man, a soldier, not a little girl-child. And he had just told Elena that he liked fairytales. Gleb dropped his head back against the wall and groaned. What was wrong with him? He needed to get away from women. All they ever seemed to do was cause him was pain and trouble. And here he was, bedridden as an old cripple, seemingly surrounded by nothing _but_ women. Gleb swore aloud. If letting just one woman in his life could cause such havoc, what would be the price of another?


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N – My longest chapter yet! It does start off with a nightmare sequence. For those of you who dislike things like that that, I'll put asterisks around the section so you can skip it if you want. **

* * *

*_Anya stood before him, her head thrown back. In the dim light, the gems in her crown and on her stunning dress glittered faintly. As she moved, he caught a waft of the orange blossom perfume she wore. Her arms were at her sides, exposing her heart to his gun, hands clenched behind her. Her features were delicate and extraordinarily beautiful, but her eyes burned fire as she stood there, defiance showing in every fiber of her being._

_ He fired. Anya's proud form crumpled to the ground, her hands grabbing instinctively at the spot where the bullet had pierced her chest, her face was twisted into a mask of agony. Her scream cut through him…_*

Gleb started awake with a gasp, sitting up quickly. He was covered in cold sweat and he could feel himself trembling. Shakily, he realized that he had been dreaming again and lay back with a pounding heart. A spasm of pain from his ankle told him that he must have jerked it badly as he sat up. The dream had been so real that the smell of orange blossoms was still in his nostrils. Gleb covered his face with his hands. Why was she haunting him like this? Almost every night for the past three weeks he had dreamed about her. In his sleeping brain, her proud, beautiful, defiant face stood out crystal clear.

Suddenly it came to him as though he had been struck. He loved Anya; loved her dearly. He loved the way she spoke, her little oddities, the way she held her head. Yes, he even loved the way she had faced him, fearless as she stared down death. And her face, her lovely, lovely face… Gleb felt the same quick rush in his pulse just thinking about her. And now he was leaving her too.

Never before this had Gleb found himself particularly attracted to anyone. He had always been reserved, keeping himself to himself and never bothering to give much attention to anything other than his duties. He realized now that he had thrown away a priceless chance for happiness, one that would never come again. It made the taste of his exile even more bitter in his mouth.

**-xxxx-**

Elena stood at the dishpan, scrubbing away rapidly. As fast as she set the clean dishes on the now-soaked cloth beside her, little Vera took them in her small, capable hands and stacked them in the cupboard. Marianne popped in and out, taking the still-warm dishes out to be used in the main dining room.

Elena glanced at the clock. Ten more minutes, she noted with relief. She had been on dish-washing shift for the past two and a half hours and her hands were ready for a break. Since Gleb had come, her mother had excused her from the waiting shift that would have come after so that she could take him his dinner. He got very irritable when he was hungry, she had noticed. She had taken to staying with him for a few minutes after giving him the tray, just to give him someone to talk to for a little while.

As soon as she was free from the dishes, she hurried to compose a tray for Gleb. There was a flavorful soup and a large piece of fresh bread with plenty of butter along with his tea. Gleb had discovered that Elena had a talent for brewing tea as well as coffee and he had taken to having a cup with supper. The crispy crust on the bread looked terribly tempting and Elena laughed as she opened Gleb's door.

"You're lucky that I'm nice," she said, "or you wouldn't have any crust left on your bread. I could swallow it in a single bite it looks that good."

Gleb looked up as she entered. "I doubt it would fit into your mouth whole," he said. His smiled a little, but his face looked pale and strained.

To Elena, who had grown up in the inn, surrounded by people of all descriptions, it seemed that there was a shadow on him. She had noticed it often, especially when he had first come, but he had seemed to settle down after a few days. Recently, however, she had begun to see it again and he seemed especially bad today. There was something in his face which made her heart ache. She wondered if his foot was giving him trouble and asked him how it was feeling.

"My ankle? Oh, it seems to be mending after its fashion," he replied staring out the window. He glanced over and, seeing the worry that had involuntarily crept into her face, attempted to smile.

"What have you got for me today, mademoiselle?"

She told him and he nodded.

"Sounds worthy of your mother's cooking," he said.

His voice was playful but there was a hollow ring to it and his eyes did not look happy. Elena couldn't bear it any longer.

"Gleb, what's troubling you?" she asked, using his first name without meaning to.

He glanced up quickly at her face looking suddenly guarded.

"Nothing," he replied.

Elena wasn't fooled.

"But there _is_ something," she insisted, setting down the tray. "The whole time you've been here something has been bothering you. I don't want to be nosy, I _hate_ people who pry into others' affairs, but you have been unhappy since you came and I cannot bear to see it. Please, is there anything I can do?" she pleaded.

Gleb's face darkened.

"You would do best to stay out of my business," he coldly, "if I wanted help or advice I would ask."

He picked the cup up off the tray and tasted the tea. Elena felt crushed.

"I'm sorry," she said, turning to leave. Gleb looked up quickly.

"Mademoiselle?" he called after her and she half-turned, her eyebrows raised in a question mark.

"Thank you," he said, not knowing what else to say.

She nodded slightly and left the room. Gleb closed his eyes in exasperation. Now he had upset her. Never mind. If she chose to poke her nose into his affairs… Gleb opened his eyes and sat up suddenly. He needed to get his letter to Gorlinsky! He had forgotten all about it and he suddenly realized with growing panic that he had been gone from Leningrad for nearly a month and had sent no word. What would his superior be thinking? And _how_ to get the letter mailed. He thought for a moment and struggled with himself.

"She _is_ a nice girl. Maybe it would set her mind to rest," he said aloud.

**-xxxx-**

It was dark by the time Elena returned to collect the tray. Vincent, her little brother, had lighted the two lamps, the small one by the bed and the larger one on the desk. As a result, the room was well lit. She came in quietly, in case he was asleep, but, seeing he wasn't, she smiled.

"Good evening," she said.

Her voice was a little cautious and Gleb felt sorry about his reaction earlier.

"To you all well," he replied, "supper was excellent as always."

Her smile was more genuine this time.

"I'm glad to hear it," she said, picking up the tray. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

Gleb mused for a moment.

"Do you play chess?" he asked suddenly and Elena nodded vigorously.

"I love it, though my mother is says that it isn't the sort of game a lady should be playing." She smiled ruefully.

Gleb waved his hand impatiently.

"Do you have a board we could use?" he asked.

"I could probably find something," Elena grinned and hurried away with the empty dinner tray.

In a few minutes she was back and in her hands she carried a battered looking wooden box.

"Look what I found in the boy's room," she said, setting down the box on the bed-table. "It was Father's first set when he was younger and he gave it to them, but none of them like chess. I'm sure they wouldn't mind us using it."

Elena opened the box and took out the game board and pieces. She set them up quickly, then went over and took the chair from the small desk. She carried it over and placed it next to the bed-table for herself. She gestured to Gleb.

"You take the first move, monsieur," she said.

"It's Gleb, please," he said quickly.

Elena smiled.

"Then call me Elena," she said.

Gleb nodded already contemplating his move. He selected a pawn near the center of his line and moved it two squares forward. She did the same. They played in silence for some time, each countering the other's moves.

"I always found it annoying that pawns only get to go one square at a time after their first move," Elena said at last pretended to pout. "They are so hopelessly slow."

"Ah, but if they weren't slow, then the game would be over too fast," Gleb replied and she nodded.

"I suppose so," she said, "but there are definitely times, like now, they nearly make go mad with impatience."

With a sly grin, Gleb moved his queen, killing one of Elena's pawns who had been sitting patiently for the horse to move so it could reach the other side of the board.

"Oh, how could you? I had one square to go!" she cried, grabbing her head in mock horror.

Gleb laughed.

"Well seeing as you have possession of five of my pawns, both bishops, a horseman, _and_ a castle I don't think you have the right to complain," he said and Elena laughed in return.

"I suppose," she said, "but that poor little pawn! It had been sitting there for half the game while your stupid horse sat on that square like broody hen on an egg!"

Her simile made them both laugh so hard that they couldn't continue for several minutes.

It was nearly an hour later and they were within the final few moves, Elena's queen chasing Gleb's king around the board, when her older brother Jean stuck his head in. Both players were so engrossed in their game they didn't notice him. An impish grin appeared on his face and he tiptoed forward quietly until he was behind Elena's chair. Without any warning, he reached out and grabbed his sister's shoulders. She shrieked and leaped up, bumping into the table as she did so and scattering the chess pieces across the room.

"Jean Michael Nathan Dassin!" she cried, "how dare you jump on me like that, tu petit grenouille?"

Jean only laughed.

"Mama says to come down and go to bed. It's nearly midnight."

"Midnight? I have to get up at five tomorrow!" Elena exclaimed in dismayed disbelief.

"Then you had better come down, hadn't you? Goodnight."

With that Jean left the room.

"I'm sorry, Gleb, I spoiled our game," Elena said as she hurried around, picking up the chess pieces.

"Think nothing of it," he replied, "you would have won anyway. My poor king was on the run for his life. You are quite the chess player."

Elena laughed.

"Why thank you," she said, "I'm a bit out of practice. I haven't played in a while."

"Well then I guess it's lucky for me that you're not _in_ practice," Gleb replied with a wry smile. "Just leave the box on the desk. Maybe we can have another game sometime," he added as she prepared to take the game box with her.

"An excellent idea," she said. Walking quickly to the desk, she set the box on it and went to the door.

"Goodnight to you," she said.

"And to you as well," Gleb replied, "I'm sorry for keeping you up so late."

"Oh, I enjoyed myself immensely!" she said and then disappeared into the hallway outside, shutting the door behind her.

Only then did Gleb remember that he had forgotten to mention his letter. _Never mind. She'll still be here tomorrow and I can tell her then,_ he thought.

Little did he know that he wouldn't see her again for nearly two weeks.

...

tu petit grenouille – you little frog


	6. Chapter 6

Elena felt herself being shaken urgently out of a dead sleep. With a gasp she started awake and saw her mother bending over her.

"Mama," she mumbled, her voice still thick with sleep, "what's wrong?"

"Madame Blanchard is having her twins. Her husband came and told me that she's in labor. I have to go and help, but I'm going to need you to run the inn while I'm gone." Her mother's voice was serious.

"Run the inn?" cried Elena, suddenly wide awake.

Her mother smiled reassuringly.

"Ma petite, you are more than capable. As you know, Aunt Louisa isn't in town or I would ask her to come help you. Besides, it will only be for a few days."

Elena gave a wan smile.

"I try, Mama."

Mme. Dassin kissed her daughter's forehead.

"Make sure to get up early and set the bread rising. That way it will be ready for baking by the time we open," she said and left the room hurriedly. Elena breathed a prayer that Mme. Blanchard would have a safe delivery and then lay awake in the darkness for a while longer, running over what she would have to do when she got up.

There were a thousand and one other things besides cooking when it came to running the inn. Her mother was one of those people who everybody knows, loves, and is at a loss without. The way she could juggle food on the stove, laundry, serving, garden work, and generally running the house and inn all at the same time, was bewildering. Now that all of the above had fallen on Elena's shoulders, she found her mother more remarkable than ever.

She threw herself into the task with a trepidation that was tinged with excitement. She had never had the household completely to herself before.

**-xxxx-**

The day began rather tryingly. When she came down into the kitchen at four, still tying on her apron, she noticed that Jean had either forgotten to fill the morning water barrel, or had neglected to do so. Her lips pursed up into a thin line as she took a bucket and carried it to the well. She would need around four buckets to start, she reasoned a little sourly. While it wasn't _miles_, the distance to and from the well was still far enough to make the thought of carrying four heavy buckets undesirable when you had just woken up and it was four o'clock in the morning.

The sky was beginning to lighten in the east. The morning air was chilly and damp and the dew lay heavily on the grass. The net effect was that after a few steps, Elena's stockings and the bottom of her skirt grew damp and cold. The wet skirt was particularly uncomfortable since it stuck to her legs.

It was with considerably less excitement and with a considerably more prominent sinking feeling that Elena set down the water bucket and moved to the bread table.

Even the bread sponges hadn't risen as well as they usually did. She scowled and set to work.

**-xxxx-**

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," Gleb called.

He looked up with a smile that quickly morphed into a puzzled frown. To Gleb's surprise, a girl of about twelve entered carrying his breakfast tray. Elena was nowhere in sight.

"Bonjour, monsieur," said the girl.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," he replied, still puzzled. He hesitated. She looked a little like Elena, perhaps they were related?

The girl seemed to notice his expression.

"My name is Marianne. Here's your breakfast," she said brightly.

She spoke Russian well, but with a slight French accent.

"Pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle Marianne," he replied, "and thank you for the breakfast."

Despite her friendly demeanor, he eyed the teacup with something like suspicion before tasting it. Marianne saw his expression and laughed.

"Oh, don't worry, I didn't brew it. Elena did that. She said she knows how you like it."

Gleb looked up at the mention of Elena's name. He had been trying to think of a way to bring her up.

"Is she alright?"

Marianne looked confused.

"Alright?" she repeated.

Gleb spread his hands slightly.

"Yes. She's not sick?"

Marianne shook her head.

"Oh non, monsieur. Elena is quite well. She has to take care of the inn today because Madame Blanchard is having her babies and Mama is helping. She asked me to bring you your tray since she was too busy."

Gleb smiled and nodded with relief.

"Ah, I see," he said.

"You know," Marianne continued in a conversational tone, "this is Elena's first time running the inn alone. Aunt Louisa always would come and help if Mama was needed somewhere, but she got married a few days before you arrived and is visiting family who couldn't make it to the wedding."

"I see," he repeated.

Marianne stood awkwardly for a few moments, unsure what to do next.

"Is there anything else you would be needing, monsieur?" she said at last.

Gleb looked up and shook his head with a smile. He couldn't reply because he had just taken a large bite of his pastry, effectively reducing it by half.

"I'll be back for your dishes in half an hour or so," she said with a friendly grin and left him to his breakfast.

As soon as she left, Gelb allowed a frown to cross his face. If Elena was too busy to bring up his tray, it was unlikely that she would come up for idle chatter. If she didn't come up, then he couldn't ask her to send the letter. He toyed for a moment with the thought of giving it to Marianne and then asking her to give it to Elena, but he discarded the idea almost immediately. He might have more or less decided to trust Elena with the letter, but he didn't know if he could trust her sister. If he was completely honest with himself, he wasn't even sure that he would be able to give the letter to her at all.

**-xxxx-**

Down in the kitchen, Elena closed the oven. She hung the bread peel on its hook, wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, and sighed. It was barely ten in the morning and already the kitchen was boiling hot. The heat radiating off the huge stove and the bread ovens was oppressive to begin with and the weather was not complying.

"It looks like we're in for a warm day," Jean called as he came into the kitchen with a load of firewood.

Elena frowned irritably.

"You can say that again," she replied, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down her back, "it's well over a hundred in here already and it's not even noon."

Without warning, Marianne suddenly bounced into the kitchen.

"Gleb asked about you," she smirked before they could react. "He seemed very concerned."

Elena felt her face grow hot. _Why_ must she always blush so easily? It only served to make her look guilty, especially when there was absolutely no reason for her to be blushing at all. She knew that Marianne was only trying to get a rise out of her and she tried to shrug it off.

"Well that was nice of him," she said, turning to stir the soup. It didn't need to be stirred, but it allowed her to turn her back on her siblings. She hoped they hadn't seen her flush. Unfortunately for her, they did. Marianne wiggled her eyebrows at Jean, causing him to grow red with suppressed laughter, and continued.

"He was happy you brewed his tea. He looked like he didn't want to drink it until I told him that it was your work."

"I can't exactly blame him," Elena replied carefully, "knowing how you brew tea."

Marianne shrugged and grinned unabashedly.

"I don't suppose it would matter if I made the loveliest tea in the world. Men always like to have things their sweethearts make them, from what I understand."

Elena spun around furiously to face Marianne.

"I'll have you know that I am _not_ his sweetheart," she said hotly.

Marianne only raised her eyebrows and Elena felt as though she was blushing to the crown of her head. She heard a smothered snort and looked up to see Jean's guiltily innocent expression. Suddenly she felt a strong urge to spank them both.

"Out with you!" she cried.

Brandishing her wooden spoon, she lunged at Jean, sending him scurrying out of the door and into the yard.

"Back to the woodpile! I need more firewood than that little twig-bundle you brought in," she called after him.

He raised his hand in acknowledgement and began jogging in the direction of the woodshed.

"As for you, Petite Mademoiselle Impudence," said Elena, tuning to where Marianne still stood grinning, "there are costumers waiting to be served. Now get too it."

Marianne stuck her tongue out at her sister, but did as she was told.

Elena turned back to the stove. She flushed again as she thought of what Marianne had said. _I simply helped him out,_ she thought to herself_. _She remembered how he had reacted when she had tried to ask him why he was unhappy and her lips thinned. _No, he definitely doesn't think of me _that_ way. Maybe he doesn't even see me as a friend, _she thought a little sadly.

**-xxxx-**

Upstairs, Gleb sighed. He had been wondering if Elena might like to play cards. Not that she could now that she was running the inn. Still, he had a deck in his bag. If she managed to come up… Gleb shook his head stubbornly at his own weakness. He had enjoyed her company, but he couldn't put out roots like this. As soon as that _blasted_ foot of his was strong enough for him to hobble about, he would be off.

* * *

**Hello everyone! Sorry this is late. School has started now so I'm switching my posting day to Saturday instead of Friday. I'll try to keep updates as regular as I can. :) Hope you enjoyed the chapter! **


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N – There is a section in this chapter that mentions complications involved with birth. I know most of you probably won't care, but I thought I should mention it anyway. I'll put asterisks around it again. I can't afford to lose any of my readers! ;) Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Elena wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her flour-covered hand. This was the tenth day that Mama had been gone. ***** Mme. Blanchard's birth had been a difficult one. Twins were always hard, especially when it was the mother's first time, but this was the worst case that Mama had ever seen.

From the short note that she had managed to get to her daughter by way of the Blanchard's hired man, Elena gathered that Mme. Blanchard was in a critical condition. The twins were both large, heavy boys and the second one had become stuck during the delivery. Mme. Dassin had been forced to do an emergency intervention that was extremely painful for the poor delivering mother and she had lost a very large amount of blood afterwards. Mme. Blanchard was a delicate woman to begin with and this ordeal had left her very weak. It was perhaps as a result of this that she had developed a serious infection.

Mme. Dassin was fighting for the life of the new mother, but she seemed to be fighting a losing battle. Mme. Blanchard's body didn't have much to give. She had been slipping back and forth on the edge of unconsciousness for nearly forty-eight hours and her poor husband was nearly distracted with worry. The twins seemed to be the only thing that was keeping him sane.

Fortunately, both babies were doing well. As Mme. Blanchard obviously couldn't feed or care for them in her condition, M. Blanchard had been charged with this important task. A neighbor was helping him learn the ropes of caring for babies while four others were assisting Mme. Dassin in the care of the mother. The doctor was also there, doing what he could.** *** It was all heartbreaking, and Elena felt another tear slip down her cheek. She prayed that all would be well, but it was impossible to know for sure.

To make things harder for Elena, her father and her brothers Henri and Jean where not at home. Her father had gone to a larger city to try and find another doctor for poor Mme. Blanchard. The boys had gone to help a family friend who desperately needed to make steers out of his bull calves before they got too big. The friend in question lived several hours outside of the town, so M. Dassin had decided that they should stay the night. He told them to leave the inn after the lunch crowd had departed so they would arrive at the friend's farm by nightfall. That way, they would be able to start the process early the next morning.

The boys were originally not going to go, but Elena had insisted, trying to keep up a brave face and do as her mother would do. She was now deeply regretting her decision to be selfless. She still had Marianne, Vincent, and Vera, but Marianne was thirteen, Vincent was ten, and little Vera was only five. They were willing helpers, but sometimes they needed more help than they gave.

Jean was seventeen, two years younger than Elena, and usually had the position of man-of-all-work when it came to outdoor chores like cutting firewood. Henri, who was three years her senior, assisted her father at the bar, helped as a server, and aided Jean whenever he could. In addition, he was something of an unofficial apprentice engineer to the miller, who he worked for three days a week. With both of them gone, Marianne had been forced to run the bar and Vincent had charge of all the outside chores with the help of Jacques, their one hired man. Elena and Vera were left to run the cooking and cleaning, though Marianne tried to help them whenever she managed to slip away from the bar for a few minutes.

The clock chimed eleven. Elena rubbed her tired eyes with her arm. She was all alone in the kitchen now, setting the bread sponges for the next day. Running the inn might have settled into something of a rhythm, but she was still absolutely exhausted at the end of the day. Tonight, she barely had the energy to finish her last few evening tasks.

When all the sponges had been set, Elena checked the doors and made sure that the fire in the stove was properly banked and the damper was in the correct position. Slowly, she climbed the stairs to her room and undressed in a daze. Slipping on her nightgown, she fell into bed, too tired to bother with her hair.

**-xxxx-**

Gleb started suddenly out of a deep sleep. For a moment his drowsy head refused to recognize what it was that had woken him. Had he been dreaming again? Then his ingrained military training exerted itself. It came to him in an instant: he had been woken by the sound of glass shattering. Someone was breaking in. Gleb sat up quickly without really knowing what he was doing. He threw the blankets off and set his feet on the ground when a sudden pain in his ankle brought him up short. He looked down at his foot in frustration, wondering what to do.

Coming to a decision, he stood up, carefully balancing on one foot, and hopped. He bent his knee as he came down, both to deaden the sound of his jump and to soften the landing for his ankle. The result was that, while his landing was nearly soundless, the jar to his ankle caused him to hiss a curse through his clenched teeth. It wasn't as bad as it had been when he had first broken it, but it still hurt considerably.

Two more jumps and he was at his door. He cautiously opened it a crack and stood listening, trying to ignore the pain in his foot. For a moment there was nothing and then he heard the slight crunch as bits of broken glass were stepped on and then the tinkling sound of some loose pieces being pushed aside. Gleb strained his ears and made out two sets of hushed footfalls.

Carefully, he opened the door the rest of the way and hopped out into the hall. He paused for a moment after each hop, but whoever was below apparently hadn't heard him. As he approached the stairs, he heard a man's voice mutter something he couldn't make out and then another voice reply in the same muted tone.

When he reached the stair-head, he paused. Did the stairs squeak? He was sure they did. How on _earth_ could he get down quietly enough to be unnoticed by the intruders? His eyes lighted on the banister, but he quickly dismissed the idea of using it. He was simply too heavy. A sudden thought occurred to him and he looked back down the way he had come. Midway down the hall, a small oil lamp with a tin reflector shed some small illumination. It was dim at best, but Gleb was able to see that there was another set of stairs at the other end of the hall. As quietly as he could, he hopped towards it.

When he reached the stairs he sat down carefully and eased himself onto the first step. It squeaked quietly, but to Gleb's adrenaline-heightened senses it positively _screeched_. Wincing at the noise, he made his way down to the closed door at the bottom. He pushed himself upright again and tried the handle which, much to his relief, turned easily. He stepped through and found himself standing on a little second-floor porch which was lit by the half moon. It seemed that the porch also served as a trellis for some kind of ivy because the low railing and the neighboring walls of the house was completely covered in trailing vines. Gleb hopped to the edge and looked down. It was odd, he thought, that he still seemed to be on the second floor when he had just come _down_ a flight of stairs _from_ the second floor. Then, as he looked at the ground below him, he realized that the inn was built against a hill. The ground was lower at the back of the building so what was the cellar near the front was a regular floor at the back. He frowned. This wasn't going to be easy.

Carefully, Gleb tested the railing and was relieved to find that it was strong. He swung his bad leg over one of the railings that was close to the house wall, wincing and swearing under his breath as the motion hurt him. Then he reached out, tugging on the vines to see if they would come loose. One or two did, but he was pleased to see that most stayed firm, anchored into the cracks between the stones of the wall. Still muttering under his breath, Gleb slipped off the railing, carefully working his way down the vines to the ground level.


	8. Chapter 8

_ CRASH! _Elena sprang out of bed, wide awake in an instant. There was a shout and then another loud crash mixed with the sound of glass shattering and a clattering of metal. By this time she was out of her room and running for the stairs.

She was halfway down when the gun went off, deafeningly loud in the confined space, immediately followed by the sound of more breaking glass. There was a shouted Russian oath and she came in view of the kitchen just in time to see Gleb hurl a heavy cast-iron skillet at another man holding a gun. The pan took the man in the face, knocking him backwards off his feet and sending him flying nearly a meter, his second shot lodging in the roof beam. Another man, apparently his companion, was already unconscious on the ground. Elena screamed and darted forward to Gleb, throwing her arms around him and burying her face against his chest with a sob of terror. He held her tightly for a long moment.

"Are there any more?" she gasped at last, stepping away from him.

"No, I got both of them," he replied.

He realized they were both breathing heavily. Elena glanced upward and saw to her horror that the left arm of his shirt was stained with blood.

"You're shot!" she cried in alarm.

Gleb shook his head.

"It only grazed me," he said. "Thank heaven above that the man wasn't the most accurate of gunmen."

It suddenly came to Elena that he was standing upright on both feet.

"Your ankle, Gleb! How are you standing?" she gasped.

Gleb suddenly realized that his ankle was _throbbing_. He swore and shifted his weight off it quickly, stumbling backwards and leaning against a nearby table. He closed his eyes and winced.

"Pardon my language," he said, his voiced strained. "It hurts considerably."

"Not at all," said Elena, flushing uncomfortably. For moment they both stood there in silence; then Elena gestured to the figures on the floor.

"What do we do with them?" she asked.

At that moment, Jacques the hired man burst in, holding a pitchfork.

"Que se passe-t-il ici?" he demanded, glancing darkly at Gleb. "Sommes-vous blessé, Mademoiselle Elena?"

"Non, non, Jacques," Elena said hurriedly.

She gave him a brief account of what she had just seen, saying how Gleb had saved them.

Jacques turned to Gleb and thanked him profusely in French. Gleb understood only part of it. His ankle was reproaching him fiercely for what he had just done to it. He swore quietly to himself. No doubt he had re-broken it or something stupid of the kind. Now he would be laid up for goodness only _knew_ how long.

**-xxxx-**

Mme. Dassin returned home two days later amidst much rejoicing. Mme. Blanchard had scraped through, but only just. She was extremely weak, nearly as helpless as her new little sons. Four neighboring ladies were still staying with her along with the new doctor. He and M. Dassin had arrived at the Blanchard home only a few hours after Mme. Blanchard had finally awoken from her near-coma state.

The rest of the Dassin family was not far behind the mother. Everyone was back under one roof, to the intense relief of more than a few of the household.

Much to Gleb's chagrin, the doctor informed him that his escapade had reversed much of the good that his confinement had done him. While it could have been worse, he was ordered back to bed and forbidden from any more antics until the doctor gave him leave.

**-xxxx-**

"Come in," Gleb called, pulling himself into a sitting position as Elena opened the door. Despite his disappointment about his foot, he found himself a surprisingly good mood. He had slept well for the first time in ages and the prospect of a chat with Elena was an attractive one.

"Good morning, monsieur," she said smiling.

"Good morning, mademoiselle," he replied. "Why the sudden formality? Did you forget my name?"

Elena laughed at his mock-offended expression.

"Well, if I call you Gleb then you have to call me Elena," she replied, setting down his breakfast tray, "it's only fair."

"Didn't we already settle that on the night we played chess, _Elena_?" he grinned, laying stress on her name, "what have you got for me today?"

"It's a little different this morning," she told him, sitting down on the chair next to his bed, "brioche toast with a small quiche and some berries that I picked earlier."

"Earlier? It's only seven-thirty in the morning. How early is earlier?" Gleb asked.

"Oh, around five," she replied with a shrug. "What's so terrible about that?" she added, seeing his disbelieving expression.

"Elena, you were out berry-picking at five in the morning?"

"I am normally up by about five and besides," she hesitated a little and then when on, "the only type of fruit that we had in the house was plums."

"What's wrong with plums?"

"Well, you have had nothing but plums for almost a week and I thought that you might like a change."

"Elena, you are simply too kind to me. If you were _out picking_ at five then you must have gotten up even earlier."

Elena shrugged again.

"I think I woke up around ten to five. It wasn't that bad."

"All so I could have a different type of fruit! I repeat, you are too kind."

Elena blushed. He realized that his gratitude was making her uncomfortable so he picked up the coffee cup.

"Is it good and strong?" he asked, surveying it with mock suspicion.

Elena grinned and nodded.

"Just as you like it," she told him.

There were a few moments of silence between them as Gleb happily savored his coffee.

"Elena," he said, looking up at her suddenly, "do you like playing cards?"

Elena looked suddenly dubious.

"Gambling, do you mean?" she asked cautiously.

Gleb shook his head emphatically, setting down his coffee cup.

"No, _no_! Not _gambling_. Card games."

"I thought that card games always involved gambling," Elena said, her voice still doubtful. "Papa strongly disapproves of them. He says that gambling is a curse and an obscenity among respectable people."

"And I wholeheartedly agree with him," Gleb replied, a touch of bitterness in his voice.

He knew firsthand of the problems that went along with gambling on card games. More often than not, such games also involved a touch too much liquor. They were rampant in the streets of Leningrad and he had been forced to break up the resultant fights more than once. There was even a time after his promotion to the rank of Deputy Commissioner when he had to save a woman from the attacks of a drunken man. This disreputable-looking character had claimed that she owed him fifty rubles. It was a sadly possible fact. As it was, he had had to convict the man for assault and…

"Gleb, are you alright?" Elena's concerned voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

"Oh yes," he replied shaking his head slightly as if to clear away the unpleasant memory. "What was I saying? Oh, card games. Some people do use them for gambling, but you don't have to. I enjoy a good game of cards myself. I could teach you if you'd like."

"Papa would never approve," Elena said, a little sorrowfully.

"But there is _absolutely _no gambling involved," Gleb insisted, "trust me, I hate it. I think that you would like Durak," he added after a moment.

"What's Durak?" Elena asked puzzled.

"It's one of my favorite games. You are trying to get rid of all of your six cards before everyone else. It's very suspenseful and fun to play. You would probably like it given your love for chess. Why don't you come up some evening and I can show you how it's done. I mean, you don't have to if it would make you uncomfortable," he added, glancing up at her a little anxiously.

Elena saw his expression and smiled.

"I'll try and come up tonight if I can. If you play it then the game can't be _that_ scandalous, can it?" she said teasingly. "Now I had better get down and let you eat your breakfast before it gets _too_ cold."

Gleb looked down at his forgotten breakfast and laughed.

"I won't keep you. Thank you for the breakfast and the berries _and _your company and conversation. It's nice having my own personal nurse back, Elena. No one takes as good care of me as you."

To his surprise, she blushed rosily. With something resembling a shy little grin, she slipped out of the room.

When she had closed the door behind her, Elena paused for a moment in the hallway and then headed for the stairs. She shook her head in a frustrated gesture.

"Marianne," she growled to herself, "that silly little…" she left the sentence unfinished, but then added stubbornly, "and I am _not_ his sweetheart."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N - There is an another dream slightly violent dream ****sequence. I'll asterisk it since I'm just that nice ;) Enjoy!**

* * *

The wind drove the rain down in torrents and whipped the branches of the trees. It wound itself around _L'__Auberge_ _du_ _Miroir_ like a cat and lashed against the windows, moaning when the sturdy panes withstood its wild attack. Somewhere on the house, a shutter, knocked loose by a gust, swung out and then crashed back against the wall.

Gleb lay in the darkness. The sound of the shutter brought it all back like it was yesterday. He let himself sink into his memories.

_BANG! He all but leaped at the sudden explosion from the street._

_ "No! Oh, please, no I beg of you no…"_

_ Gleb spun around and narrowly escaped being hit in the shins by a flying broom. He picked it up, his eyes sweeping the sidewalk for the cause of both the cry and the broom. They lighted on a huddled figure crouching in the gutter and, concerned, he hurried towards it. _

_ As he came closer, he could see that the figure was, in fact, a young woman of about twenty. Her clothes was ragged and torn in many places and she wore no hat. Her hair, or what could been seen of it though the grime, was a deep red-gold. She was sobbing and shaking her head, her arms hugged to herself. Gleb's brow furrowed. What on earth was going on here?_

_ Bending down, he took her arm and helped her to her feet. She kept her head down and turned away from him. _

_ "It was just a truck backfiring, comrade, it startled me as well."_

_ She shuddered and said something that he didn't hear. He bent his head closer trying to catch her words above the nose of the street._

_ "I'm sorry, comrade, what was that?"_

_ Again, she spoke quietly, but this time he made out the words, "guns…firing…soldiers."_

_ His heart lurched with pity. Obviously the sound of the backfiring truck had brought back some unpleasant memories to this poor girl. He tried to think of something comforting to say._

_ "Those days are over now," he said at last, "there's nothing for you to be afraid of anymore. No one's going to hurt you."_

_ She glanced up and seemed to realize for the first time that he was in military uniform. She started away and tried to snatch her broom from his hand, but he held onto it. She looked up desperately into his face, her eyes still clouded with the terror of dark memories. _

_ Gleb gave a quiet, involuntary gasp. He hadn't really gotten a good look at her face before, but now that he did, he could see that she was beautiful in a way that transcended mere prettiness. Every line and curve of her pale face was delicate and graceful. Even as she was, dirty, wet, cold, thin, and terrified, it was enough to take his breath away. He realized that he was staring and flushed._

_ "Uh, there is a teashop just a few steps away," he said, trying to ignore his suddenly beating heart, "would you like something hot to drink? You're trembling and look like you could use it." _

_ He added the last bit more to himself than to her. The girl stiffened and pulled herself upright. She looked suddenly regal despite her appearance. _

_ "Perhaps another time," she said. Her voice still quavered slightly, but her expression was firm. "I'm late for work already and jobs are hard to come by."_

_ "Oh indeed," he managed. "I wouldn't want to be the cause of you losing your employment." _

_ He released his hold on her broom with what he hoped was a friendly nod. She hurried away, grasping it tightly. Before she had gone a dozen paces, however, she turned back. _

_ "Comrade?" she called. _

_ He raised his eyebrows encouragingly. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then spoke again._

_ "Thank you," she said, a little shyly._

_ "Oh, think nothing of it," he replied, "I was glad to be of use. I'm here every day if you ever need anything," he added uncertainly, hoping that he wasn't coming off as forward. _

_ She gave a little smile and set off rapidly down the street. Unable to tear his eyes away, he watched her retreating form until he lost her in the crowds…_

_ Anya sat across from him, sipping her tea. He had tried to explain what a dangerous game she was playing. She had simply remained quiet, drinking her tea and looking intently at him. He felt pinned down by her eyes. They were a piercing, oddly-familiar blue and he felt himself grow hot again as he stood there, trying to think of something else to say. He was annoyed with himself. Whenever she was around he got all tongue tied and shy. Now was _not _the time for that. He was an _officer_… _

_ She set her cup down on the desk and stood, her eyes never leaving his face. It was as though she was looking for something in his features, that she recognized him but couldn't place where she had seen him before. _

_ "Thank you for your warning, comrade," she said._

_ "Oh, it's Gleb," he stuttered, "please. No need for… formality between friends."_

_ Her expression softened a little._

_ "Is that what I am?"_

_ He was sure he had never been so uncomfortable and yet so happy at the same time._

_ "I do and would be honored if you would consider me one as well, comrade," he said. _

_ She really smiled this time, the sight nearly taking his breath away._

_ "Indeed I do," she said softly, "call me Anya, Gleb."_

_ "Anya," he said, more to himself than to her, "it's a pretty name."_

_ She smiled again and a little flush stained the paleness of her face._

_ "Thank you, Gleb," she looked down at the desk and for a moment, an awkward silence settled between them which neither seemed to know how to break. They both jumped when the clock chimed the hour. _

_ Anya's head snapped up. _

_ "I have to go," she said reluctantly. _

_ Gleb nodded and, coming around the desk, held out his hand to her. She shook it in a friendly fashion, glancing upwards at his face. His stomach gave a lurch. Those eyes. He had seen them before, but where? His forehead creased in thought and, without thinking what he was doing, he placed his finger under her chin, forcing her to look up at him, and gazed intently into her face._

_ "Your eyes," he muttered, "I've seen them before…"_

_ He was snapped out of his thoughts by her frightened expression._

_ "I'm late for work," her voice was tense. _

_ "Oh, of course," he stepped back, blinking as he tried to clear his head. She went to step past him, but suddenly, remembering his position, he caught her arm. She turned back to him, really frightened now. He kept his tone low and serious._

_ "As your friend, be careful, Anya."_

_ He scanned her face, looking for a sign that she understood his meaning. She nodded and went to pull away from him, but he held her fast. _

_ "As Deputy Commissioner of Leningrad, be _very_ careful." _

_ "Yes, comrade," she whispered. _

_ He let her go and she all but ran from the office, closing the door behind her. He forced himself to walk back to his desk and then stood frozen behind it, staring at the door._

_ "Oh, Anya…"_

The sound of the storm was becoming increasingly far away, as though he was listening through a long tunnel. Gleb gave a sigh and his breathing evened into the regular pattern of sleep...

*****_The light of the lamp made her red-gold hair look like flame. It was smooth and shiny, coiled in an intricate up-do. Her clothes were fashionable, a soft blue silk dress with a short white coat over the top. The soft smell of the French flowers that grew near the bridge wafted over them._

_ "Anya, there is something I must tell you …"_

_ "Shhhhh" she set her finger to his lips, looking up into his face with eyes that were warm and soft and causing whatever he had wanted to say to fall dead on his lips. He stared down at her, his heart in his mouth as he held her there in his arms._

_ She leaned closer to him, and he bent his head down towards her, bringing their foreheads together, her soft breath tickled his lips…_

_ The lamp when out like a match and the air around them was suddenly cold and filled with sharp, flying snowflakes. Anya gave a piercing scream and lurched away from him, falling on the now snow-covered ground. To his horror, Gleb saw that the front of her coat was stained with blood. He dropped down to help her but she recoiled, her eyes locked on his hand. He looked down and realized in terror that he was holding his father's pistol. The tip was smoking and the smell of gunpowder filled his nostrils. He dropped the gun as though it were a burning brand._

_ "Anya, no! I..."_

_ "Oh, Gleb Vaganov how could you?" her voice was hard and bitter. "You destroy everything you love." _

_ She slumped forward in the snow. With an agonized cry, Gleb bent over her, tears stinging his eyes._

_ "No, no," he begged, "don't leave me, don't leave me, Anya! Please, I love you! Don't leave me alone!"_

_ A shadow fell on him and he looked up. His father stood there, framed against the dark trees: silent, stern, accusing._

_ "You have betrayed me and Russia," he said through clenched teeth, "you have betrayed everything." _*****

Gleb gave a sob and turned over in his bed. Two tears ran down his sleeping face and wet his pillow. He grasped at the coverlet, clenching it in white-knuckled hands, his dreams drifting to other things which he afterwards did not remember. The wind wailed on.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N - Warning: some mildly graphic content ahead. Nothing really bad. Enjoy! :)**

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Elena jogged up the stairs, the basket of dirty laundry balanced on her hip. She glanced at the hall clock. It was ten past six if you could trust it. Every clock in _L'Auberge_ _du_ _Miroir_ had its own version of the time and she shook her head slightly in amusement. Her grin disappeared a moment later as she passed the door of Gleb's room. She paused, wondering if perhaps she had been mistaken, when it came again: a moan that was followed by what sounded like a muttered Russian oath. What was wrong? Elena reached out, balancing the basket with one hand and opened the door.

Gleb was in bed and apparently asleep, but as she paused hesitantly on the threshold he gave a convulsive shudder and turned over with what could only be a sob. Worry etched itself across Elena's face. What was wrong with him? Then, as he muttered again, she realized that he was sleep-talking. Quietly, she closed the door, set her laundry basket on the floor, and walked over to his bed. He turned his head towards her and Elena gave an involuntary gasp. Gleb's eyes were still closed, but his brows were knit and there were tears on his face. He muttered something then winced and turned over again so he was facing the wall.

Elena stood uncertainly by his bedside. Should she wake him from whatever nightmare was troubling him or would that be inappropriate? He did seem quieter now. Maybe she should just leave? As she was thinking, she let her eyes wander the room. They lighted on Gleb's small leather traveling bag that was sitting on desk.

_I wonder if there are any dirty clothes in there. I could wash them since I'm already doing the rest of our clothes,_ she thought to herself.

Walking back to the door she fetched the laundry basket and carried it over to the desk. She undid the fastening of the bag and then paused again. Would it be rude to open it? She certainly didn't intend to pry and she _was_ his main caregiver after all. Coming to a decision, she opened the top.

Inside was what had probably once been a neat stack of shirts. They were somewhat rumpled now and Elena took them out and set them on the desk. Under the shirts was a pair of trousers which she also lifted out. And froze.

The medals on breast the green-grey Bolshevik uniform glistened in the early morning sunlight coming in through the window, but Elena didn't notice. It was all around her again: the, the shots, the screams, the panic, the dark, haunted eyes and pallid face of the man who had grabbed her arm with his bloodied glove and ordered her to go home…

**-xxxx-**

Comrade Mikhail Vaganov hoisted up the body of the former tsar of Russia by his armpits while one of the other guards took his feet. Staggering a little under their load, they made their way outside, dropping the bloodied body next to the others which were lying in a heap a little ways from the door. The truck that was to take them to their final destination hadn't arrived yet, but it was due in a few minutes. Mikhail fought down the churning in his stomach at the sight of them. He would _not_ be sick in front of his fellow comrades. He clenched his jaw, frowning. The man who had helped him carry out the tsar's body laughed tightly.

"Why do glum, comrade?" he said. "Not a pretty sight maybe, but better than before."

Mikhail gave a grunt that he hoped sounded affirmative.

"You aren't turning white on us, are you?" the face of his companion looked suddenly grave and he lifted his hand ever so slightly towards where his pistol rested in its holster.

"Oh no, Comrade Gorlinsky, I assure you. I am simply disgusted."

"Your duty is your duty, Comrade Vaganov," Rodion Gorlinsky's voice was venomously smooth. "You must do it no matter how you _feel_."

"Of course, comrade," Mikhail managed. His stomach gave a dangerous heave and he bit his lip.

"Why else do you think the tsar and his entire family is lying dead at our feet?" he added after a moment, gesturing to the ground beside where they stood.

Rodion cocked an eyebrow.

"They are there for what they did," he said sharply. "They made themselves the enemies of Russia."

"I know it well, comrade, brighter days are coming for the Motherland," Mikhail replied, trying to force an unflustered tone into his voice.

Rodion opened his mouth to answer, but he was cut off by a shout from inside the palace followed by a long string of curses.

"Comrade Gorlinsky!" a voice called, "give us a hand in here!"

"I'm coming, Comrade Captain!" he called and walked to the doorway. Pausing on the threshold, he looked back at Mikhail, his expression bordering on suspicious.

"See that nothing happens to them," he gestured to the bodies of the Romanovs.

Mikhail raised his hand in a reassuring gesture, "You have nothing to fear, comrade. I know my duty."

Rodion remained unmoving a moment longer, staring at him, then turned and disappeared into the dimness of the hallway. He swung the door shut behind him.

Mikhail stood there, fighting desperately to stay in control of himself. He could feel his body trembling as the adrenaline of the past fifteen minutes began to wear off. Suddenly he stood up straighter, his hand going automatically to the pistol at his side. From somewhere in the darkness came the sound of sobbing.

Mikhail strained forward, staring into the gloom. His eyes darted around, trying to find the source. They lit on a bit a white visible behind one of the sparse bushes. Carefully, every nerve tense, he walked towards it.

"Who's there?" he asked harshly, stepping suddenly around the bush.

A figure sprang up from its formerly crouched position, starting away from him with a gasp of fear. A pair of terrified eyes was raised to his own. Mikhail's heart gave a lurch. It was only a little girl. She was about eight, dressed in a nightgown, her blond curls disheveled. Utter shock and terror were written across her tear-streaked face. She tried to run, but he grabbed her arm, forcing her to stay.

"Who are you," he demanded.

"Mama!" the girl shrieked, trying desperately to free herself.

"Be still," he ordered and she stopped struggling, looking up at him in terror.

"Who _are_ you?" he repeated sternly.

"L-lena," the little girl sobbed out.

Mikhail crouched down so he was level with her.

"What are you doing here, Lena?"

"I h-heard guns a-and shouting a-and I-I ran out to find Mama bec-cause she w-as with G-grandmama" her voice faltered with both fear and crying, "a-and they opened the d-door and I hid and th-ey pulled bodies out of the d-door and l-left them on the g-ground a-a-and…"

She dissolved into sobs, crouching low with her free hand pressed to her face. Mikhail felt a stab of guilt prick into his heart like a knife.

"You poor thing," he murmured, more to himself than to her, "having to witness something like that. And at so young an age…" he shook his head, his thoughts going to his own young son. Mikhail's house was practically across the street and his poor boy would probably be scarred for life by what had happened tonight. Just as this girl would be.

"Where do you live," he asked more gently.

The little girl raised her head.

"F-far a-away. We're visiting Grandmamma and I wanna go ho-o-ome," she wailed.

Mikhail swore to himself. She wasn't even from around here! If only her family had chosen _any _other time to visit Yekaterinburg.

"Do you think you can find your way back to the house you're staying at?" he asked.

"I want Mama," she wept, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

He gave a slight gasp, her words bringing back the images from a few minutes ago; of the Romanov children making similar entreaties as they were dying…

Mikhail actually lurched this time, fighting down the wave of nausea that flooded over him.

"You have to go back to the house," he told her with all the firmness he could muster, "can you find your way back?" He gave her arm a little shake, "Answer me."

"Y-yes, I-I think so," she replied tremulously.

"Then go," he gave her a little shove to send her on her way.

She stumbled a few paces and then paused, looking back at him. He made a shooing motion with his hand and she fled off into the darkness.

Slowly, Mikhail rose to his feet and headed back to where the bodies lay. He glanced at them, making sure they were still as he had left them. One of the corpses moved. He gave a startled gasp, and bent closer, his hand flying to his pistol again. It was one of the girls, he saw. Again there was a slight movement then to his astonished ears came a feeble cry for help. There could be no doubt of it: one of the daughters of the tsar was still alive. Reaching down, he pushed off the bodies that lay on top of her, cautiously bending closer. She blinked and turned her head slightly. Mikhail sprang back, drawing his pistol and aiming it at her head. She gave a shuddering gasp that was half a sob.

"_Mama, help me...I…I can't ...breathe."_

The whispered words came faintly to his ears. Mikhail paused, his finger in the trigger, trying to steel himself to the task. He could hear Rodion's voice echoing in his ears: _Your duty is your duty, Comrade Vaganov_. This was his duty, both to Russia and himself. He stared down at the blood-covered figure on the ground. He couldn't pull the trigger.

Inside the palace, someone called something to another comrade, reminding him that he was not alone. He looked down at the tsar's young daughter, thinking of the little girl he had just seen and of his son. Suddenly, he realized that he couldn't let her die. He glanced around and coming to a decision, reached down and took the girl up in his arms as if she were a baby. She gave a low moan and he winced, not wanting to think about the pain the movement must have caused her. Her head slumped to his shoulder as he hurried towards the edge of the woods that grew about fifty meters away.

Once he was under the shadow of the branches, Mikhail went on for a little ways until he reached a shallow depression near a tree. He set her down as gently as he could and crouched beside her, trying to think of what he should do. The grand duchess groaned again and then, to his immense surprise, sat up. She swayed a little, but the eyes that looked into his face were both alert and fearful.

"Who…you?" she whispered.

"I'm… saving you," he replied.

She braced herself a moment, her hand crawling backwards for support. It met the tree and amazingly, she pulled herself erect only to stumble a moment later with a shallow gasp of agony. Mikhail sprang forward and caught her before she could fall.

"You can _stand_?" He couldn't contain his astonishment.

She nodded slightly her breathing shallow and tremulous. She stood still for a moment, supported by his arms, and then pushed back, trying to stand on her own.

Suddenly, Mikhail heard voices. He bent his head so he could look the girl in the face.

"Listen to me," he said urgently. "Stay here. I'll come back and get you in a little while, but if I don't leave now they will come and find you."

She nodded and he eased her back against the tree. He wished he could help her sit, but he had no time. He set off at a run, making it back beside the bodies a few seconds before the little back door of the palace that they had been using was pushed open again. He frantically tried to slow his heavy breathing as they came closer.

"All clear, Comrade Vaganov?" called a crisp voice.

Mikhail felt panic rising up in his throat as he recognized the voice of the captain.

"All clear, Comrade Captain," he replied, trying force a normal tone. Luckily for him, the truck driver chose that moment to arrive and the sound of the engine helped hide his still-labored breathing. Mikhail felt cold dread in his gut as the others began loading the bodies into the back of the truck. Would they count them? Would the girl be missed?

Despite his fears, it didn't appear that the others noticed anything amiss. After the remaining bodies had been loaded and a cover spread over them, the driver said a few words to the captain, saluted, and drove off. The captain turned back to his men.

"Good work tonight, comrades," he told them. "To all of you that live in the town I am granting a day's leave. Go home, see your families, celebrate a good job done. Tomorrow evening, I expect you to be back in the guard barracks as usual."

There was a general chorus of, "Yes, Comrade Captain." Mikhail couldn't believe his ears. It was too good to be true. He and the other men gave their thanks and goodnights and headed towards the town. He lagged behind the others, walking as if lost in thought, but as soon as they had turned the corner, he carefully retraced his steps. It was beginning to snow, he noticed, he'd have to hurry.

Mindful of guards, he cautiously worked his way to the edge of the woods. He had made a mental note of the place that he had left the girl. A short ways from the little depression was a rock with a stick leaning against it. He saw them now and turned to the left, walking around the tree that she was leaning against when he left her.

She was gone. Nothing remained but the faint smell of blood. Mikhail Vaganov stood staring for a moment then collapsed forward onto his hands and knees and was violently sick.

**-xxxx-**

Gleb stirred and mumbled in his sleep, snapping Elena out of the paralysis of memories that had taken hold of her. She snatched up Gleb's clothing and flung them back on top of the uniform. _His _uniform.

_Gleb Vaganov, who you thought was your friend, is a Bolshevik soldier_. The thought hit her like a load of bricks, nearly causing her to stagger. She pulled the lid of the bag closed, not bothering to fasten it. Picking up her laundry basket, Elena turned and fled from the room.


	11. Chapter 11

**Hello my lovely people! Sorry this is a little late! I'm going to try and keep these updates regular, but I make no promises. School is taking up an obscene amount of time this year. :l This is the last chapter I have written up at the moment and I only have one more definitely planned out right now. We'll see where this goes. This story has a mind of it's own and is pretty reliable when it comes to demanding that I write it. I have some ideas that are kicking around just nothing definite. Enough of my rambling! Enjoy! :) **

* * *

When Gleb awoke he was in a particularly bad mood. His sleep had been restless again, troubled by nightmares and dreams that were half memories. Old battles, friends he'd lost, seeing others die in front of him while he stood by helpless, all these came back to haunt him. And Anya, _always_ Anya. He sighed, running his hands though his tousled hair, and glanced at the wall clock. Ten minutes of eight. Elena would be coming up soon and she always managed to lift his spirits. He looked forward to their daily talks now. They were the highlight in his otherwise uneventful life. The doctor had forbidden him from moving around after the episode with the thieves. He sighed again and reached for his clothes which were sitting on the table beside his bed. He had become quite proficient at getting his trouser leg over his bandaged foot.

After he was dressed, Gleb rearranged the pillows into a position more conducive to sitting and settled back. After about five minutes of waiting like this, he heard Elena's knock. He had learned to tell it apart from those of the few other people who came into his room.

"Come in," he called, his face brightening.

To his great surprise, he was not greeted with the girl's usual smile nor her cheery, "Good morning, Gleb!" This Elena was, for lack of a better word, grim. Her face was set and her lips pinched into a thin line. She caught his puzzled expression and took on a defiant air as she briskly crossed the room and set down his tray.

"Good morning, Elena. How are you?" Gleb ask uncertainly, feeling that he had to say _something_.

Elena looked directly into his face.

"I'm well, _comrade_," she spat.

Gleb flinched back as though she had struck him. _How in the world…?_

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, desperately trying to collect his shattered wits.

Elena's face was a mixture of bitterness and fiercely defiant anger.

"Oh yes, I know, Gleb Vaganov. I know that _you_ are a _Bolshevik_."

By this time, shocked as he was, Gleb had managed to pull himself together. You didn't get as far as deputy commissioner in Russia if you couldn't play off difficult and dangerous questions from time to time.

"A _Bolshevik_?" he asked his face and tone incredulous. "What on _earth_ would put that idea into your head?"

Elena cocked her eyebrow in a withering expression that reminded him forcefully of Comrade Borislave Gorlinsky, his superior in Leningrad.

"Well first of all, _comrade_," the stress she laid on the word made him feel sick, "there is the fact that you just turned up, out of nowhere and have never even _hinted_ about who you were or what you do," she counted off on her fingers as she spoke. "You speak fluent Russian, curse like a sailor…"

"That _hardly_ makes me a Bolshevik," he cut it, flushing.

Elena gave a mirthless little laugh.

"No? Then explain _this_."

Before he could react, she ran to the desk. Flinging open the cover of his bag, she pushed aside the clothes and pulled out the coat of his uniform, now badly wrinkled from being crushed in the bottom of the bag for so long. Gleb's heart sank.

"Explain this, _Gleb Vaganov_," she cried, shaking it so that the medals on the breast clanked together. "Explain how you came into the possession of a Bolshevik uniform."

"It's my Uncle Dimitry's," he replied, thinking quickly, "he used to be in the Bolshevik military. My aunt was originally from France and when he was discharged, they moved here. I was on my way to visit them when I got injured. I was going to bring the uniform as a surprise for him because it was forgotten when they left Russia."

It wasn't the strongest story, but it was all he could manage with so little warning.

Elena's expression became mockingly sympathetic.

"Oh, how kind of you," she said in a scathing tone which told him that she had not believed a word of his story. Then she let the blow fall: "If your uncle is named Dimitry, why does the name tag sewn in it say '_Gleb Vaganov'_?"

Gleb swore aloud. _Why_ had he been so stupid as to mention a _name_? And _WHY_ was _his_ name sewn into the blasted coat when he was supposed to be traveling_ INCOGNITO?! _

"Ah, so you admit it!" Elena cried fiercely, throwing down the uniform. "You are nothing but a Bolshevik dog who loves nothing but death and pain and destruction! You took a country and ravaged it to the ground! You destroyed countless thousands of innocent lives, tearing families _apart_, and for what? For _WHAT? _For your stupid, idealistic, rash, childish idea that life would be perfect if you got it all _your_ way! This _senseless_ idea that everybody will work together in perfect harmony if you destroyed all those people who had any _sense_ and said this horrific idea was any good! You _destroyed_ my family, my _happy_, _loving family_, for a stupid ideal!"

Elena broke down, sobbing into her hands. Gleb sat upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed so his feet touched the floor, his blood boiling. The motion sent spasms of pain up and down his broken ankle, but he didn't care. His hands clenched into fists.

"Do you want to know why?" He demanded, "Because I'll tell you. For _years_ the cursed imperial family made life _hell_ for every Russian who was worth a _cent_. _They_ crushed families. _They_ stole the moldy scraps out of the mouths of the starving urchins on the street, to bolster up their own personal gain. _They _talked about how _wonderful_ Russia was while they ate their banquets and danced at their balls. They _drowned_ themselves in wealth and luxuries, while their people froze and starved. _They didn't care _if we didn't know where our nextmouthful of bread would come from! 'If the people are starving, they should work harder!' _Work harder_! Spoken out of the mouths of pompous idiots who had never worked a day in their life! We were sick of living like rats. Maybe the royals should have considered that their subjects were human and downright _sick_ of being nothing but _subjects. _That _they _were the ones that were destroying Russia! The Bolsheviks were liberators who fought and are _still_ _fighting_ to free the Russian people from the cursed leader who oppressed them!"

Elena head snapped upright.

"My mother does not have a _single relative left_!" she shouted, "Why? Because her family didn't believe that murder was an acceptable solution to a depraved country's problems!"

"If they supported the cursed Romanovs then I'm glad they were killed!" Gleb cried passionately, his usual self-control thrown to the wind. "They deserved it, every one of them!"

"You are _glad _that my family was torn apart and _murdered_? I thought I knew you, Gleb Vaganov, but now I see that the man I knew was nothing but a fake. Now I see who you really are: a heartless monster who thinks that the cold-blooded slaughtering of the innocent children of a country's leader is patriotic!"

"They didn't all die!" Gleb shouted and then went deathly pale as he realized what he had just said.

"How would you know?" Elena cried hotly. "How would you know about _anything?_"

"I know because I have met her," he flung back. "I met Anastasia under a false name while she was working as a street sweeper in Leningrad. She was brought to my office after taking up with some criminals who were using her to wheedle money out of the Dowager Empress. I warned her against it, but she ran to Paris. When I found her, I couldn't force myself to finish the task because I'm a cursed idiot and I love her!" Gleb's voice broke, but he forced himself on. "Instead of going back to Russia and facing the death I have earned, I am running away like a coward; but no matter how far I run, I will never be free. Every night she's in my dreams, driving me mad with the knowledge that she's still there; that I failed and all the good that has been done in Russia will be undone."

"_You_ love the tsar's _daughter_?" Elena's tone was absolutely incredulous, but then filled with bitterness and fury. "I'm _glad_. I'm _glad _she stole what heart you had and crushed it like you have crushed so many. I'm _glad_ she's still alive to taunt you and hurt you and make you know that all you follow will one day be destroyed! I hope the Russians track you down and kill you. You don't deserve life _or_ love. I _hate _you, Gleb Vaganov! I _hate _you!"

Elena turned and ran from the room, slamming the door behind her. Gleb sat for a moment, clenching and unclenching the bedspread with trembling hands, his head spinning and his eyes stinging with unshed tears of anger and deep, deep hurt. Standing upright abruptly, he hopped over to where Elena had dropped his coat. He picked it up and straightened it then hopped the rest of the way to the desk. Folding the coat roughly, he shoved it back into the bottom of his bag and stuffed the other clothes on top to hide it. Out of the muddle that was his thoughts, one thing stood out clearly: he was leaving and he was leaving _now_.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N - Sorry about the delay! Like I said before, I'm pretty short on time and inspiration right now, but let's see what happens, shall we? Enjoy!**

* * *

Even in his state of emotional turmoil, Gleb quickly realized that leaving_ now_, was neither practical nor feasible. To begin with, the only way he could get around was by hopping. He didn't know where he could find crutches and hopping down the street would attract far too much attention for someone who needed to remain inconspicuous. Secondly, he had not the faintest idea of where to go. This unfortunate reality only served to bring back the panic of uncertainty and fear that he had felt when he was first leaving Paris. He knew that panicking was the worst possible thing he could do. He needed to think and he needed to think _clearly_. Gleb leaned heavily on the desk and focused on breathing, trying to regain some sense of control; then he sat down in the desk chair and forced himself to consider the situation as calmly as he could.

Would Elena report him to the authorities? He considered the question for several minutes. The Elena that had confronted him was a vastly different girl from the sweet, gentle girl that he had thought he knew. In the end, however, he decided that she probably wouldn't. It didn't seem that she had told anybody else about his connection with the Bolsheviks. If she had, he mused bitterly, then at least six people would probably have come storming into his room and tossed him out the window. No, if Elena wasn't going to tell her family about him then it wasn't likely that she would notify the police.

So how was he to get away? He could always just pack up, say that he was leaving, and walk out, but from the impression he had gotten of Mme. Dassin, that wouldn't work. He would never be allowed to leave on account of his foot and they would probably send for the doctor again. Trying to sneak out was utterly impossible, at least during the daytime. Perhaps he could slip down and away after closing? Or he could always climb down the wall again if worst came to worst. Gleb sighed and dropped his head into his hands. Sitting there, staring at the desk, he suddenly remembered the map that he had in his bag. Lifting his head, he pulled it closer, opening the outside pocket. Reaching inside, Gleb took out the map and spread it on the table. Where would he go now? _It's Paris all over again, _he thought bitterly.

**-xxxx-**

Elena hadn't stopped running until she reached her room. Then she had proceeded to throw herself on her bed and cry out all the remaining anger and fear and hurt of ten years that she had not already thrown into Gleb's face. And then she cried some more. In the empty stillness and clarity that followed, Elena's white hot anger dimmed a little. She was still smarting from Gleb's heartless words, but the more she thought about what had happened, the more she began to regret some of her own. Blinded by hurt and anger, she had let her tongue run away with her.

Elena was a naturally reserved and compassionate person. She had always tried to keep her troubles to herself, to not bother anyone else with them and to bear it all in silence. She realized that this constant stowing away of hurt was at the root of her outburst. If only she had been able to tell someone, been able to talk about what had happened and how deeply it had scarred her. As it was, not even her mother knew that she had left the house that night in Yekaterinburg. Elena flinched a little just thinking about it.

And poor Gleb. Even though she was still hurt and angry at his words, she realized that he was probably coming from a similar position. Much of his life had been lived in hunger and cold because of the tsar's regime. It was resentment and longstanding injury that had driven him to say such things. Elena firmly squashed all other possibilities out of her head. If she could feel crushed by the hurts of the past, why couldn't he?

The longer Elena thought, the drowsier she became. At last she fell asleep, worn out with spent anger and emotion.

**-xxxx- **

Gleb stood casually in front of the desk, his left leg straight and the other kneeling on the desk chair to take the weight off his bad foot. It felt good to stand after so long. He was not in a mood to be contradicted by something as trivial as the doctor's orders. Blast the man! All he had done for _weeks_ was to tell Gleb to remain quiet, to wait, to be patient. Gleb was quite finished with all three. He would not sit quietly and wait and he would _not_ be patient.

He glanced at the clock: nearly quarter after seven. He was eating the remnants of a scone from that morning and tracing the railway route that he had devised to get him out of the immediate area. Since her emphatic exit, there had been no sign of Elena and Gleb had decided that she simply meant to ignore him until he went away. Well, he would be happy to oblige. If only there was a way to get around _besides_ looking like a one-legged bunny rabbit.

A sudden thought came to him and he cast around until he found his shoes. Maybe, if he tied it tightly, the shoe would provide enough support for him to limp around. It was a good idea in theory, but inserting his bandaged foot was quite another matter.

Gleb sat down and loosened the laces, stretching the tongue as far as possible, then attempted to slip his foot inside. He cursed though his clenched teeth at the pain it caused him, but he did succeed to get his foot inside. He only managed to keep it _in_ the shoe for a few seconds, however. The pressure caused by the over-sized bandage in the narrow shoe became unbearable and he pulled his foot out again with a hiss of pain. He resisted the urge to throw the offending shoe across the room and instead pulled himself erect. He'd just have to go without.

Gleb carefully set his foot on the ground only to snatch it back a moment later with an oath. In the back of his mind, he could hear Elena's contemptuous voice: _You curse like a sailor!_ Angrily, he swatted the thought away. What if his language left something to be desired? It didn't matter. He supposed it was something of a habit, born out of years of working for the military. Elena's disapproval wasn't going to change that and quite frankly, he didn't care what she thought, or so he told himself. Deep down Gleb knew that he _did_ care, and the realization didn't help to bolster his mood. Leaning on the desk, he stared down dejectedly at the map.

The sound of a knock on the door made him jump. Before he could reply, it was pushed open revealing a rather rumpled looking Elena holding a tray. Her face, which plainly betrayed her inner discomfort, was quickly changed when she saw that he was standing upright.

"Gleb! Your foot! You shouldn't be standing!" she cried, setting the tray down on the bedside stand and starting towards him. His next words stopped her dead in her tracks.

"You concern in unnecessary," Gleb said coldly. "I don't see why the well-being of a Bolshevik dog should be of the least concern to you."

Elena rung her hands in her apron.

"Oh what can I say?" she said softly, tears starting in her eyes. "I-I…"

Gleb cut her off.

"I don't expect you to say anything." His tone was dismissive as though he was talking to a child and he looked down again, pretending to study the map.

There was an awkward pause.

"I want to apologize, Gleb," Elena said at last in a small voice.

"That isn't necessary," he replied, not looking up.

"Yes it is," she said more firmly, stepping closer to him.

Gleb looked up from his map and saw the resolute expression on her face.

"And why would that be the case?" he asked.

Elena lifted her chin slightly.

"It is the case because I have been taught to right my wrongs," she said. "I have been thinking about what passed between us and realized that some of the things that I said were uncalled-for and unfair. I had no right to say them. I especially regret my last remarks concerning certain people and your future… safety. I am not forcing you to forgive me, but I do wish to heal the injuries I have caused to the best of my ability."

There was a little quiver in her voice as she said the last words, but her expression remained firm.

Gleb kept his appearance cold. He merely nodded disinterestedly and returned to studying the map. Elena watched him, twisting her apron in a fever of uncertainty.

"There is a reason why the sight of the uniform caused me to act so…unacceptably," she managed at last.

The only reply that she got was a brief grunt. Clasping her hands together tightly, she forced herself on.

"I-I was _there_ that night in Yekaterinburg."

Gleb whipped around to face her.

"You where _there_?" he gasped in disbelief.

Elena nodded, her face growing pale at the memory.

"Yes, I was a young child at the time, barely nine. My grandmother lived in Yekaterinburg and my mother and I was visiting her because she had fallen ill. My other siblings were staying with a relative here in France, but I begged Mama until she allowed me to come. We stayed at Aunt Olya's house which was a short walk from Grandmama's. The night that… it happened, I was alone in bed," Elena shivered and hugged herself with her arms. "Mama and Aunt Olya were staying with Grandmama. The gunshots woke me up. Utterly terrified and alone, I ran out of the house in the direction I had seen Mama go. It was freezing cold out and I was shivering in a matter of seconds. I also had no clear idea of how to get to my grandmother's house. In the end I wound out outside the palace."

Elena paused, trying to compose herself, but then continued, her voice trembling.

"When the soldiers opened the door, I saw the light and thought that I was safe. I ran forward but thankfully, I saw... I saw what they were carrying and hid before they noticed me. Cold, frightened, lost, and horrified at what I had just seen, I huddled behind a bush and cried. The soldiers talked for a long time and then it all went quite. Foolishly, I thought that they had gone away and let myself cry a little louder than I should have. Before I knew what had happened, I was being grabbed by a soldier. I was terrified and screamed but he ordered me to stop and asked my name. I told it to him and said that I didn't come from the area. He seemed sad and told me to go home. I managed to find my way back to the house and hid in bed. I never told my mother what had happened because I didn't want to worry her, but I will never forget that soldier's face. He was white as a sheet and his eyes were dark, the way a hunted animal looks. He…"

Elena suddenly gave a gasp and looked Gleb full in the face, her eyes wide. She covered her mouth with her hand, taking an unconscious half-step backwards.

"Gleb," she whispered, "he looked _exactly _like you."

Gleb stood for a moment, shock at what he had just heard flooding his mind. Suddenly, like a clap of thunder, the last bit made sense.

Father," he murmured. "He must have been the one to send you home. When I saw his face the next day…" Gleb shook his head, frowning. "He never was the same after that night…"

"_You_ were in Yekaterinburg?" Elena gasped.

"Elena, I _lived_ in Yekaterinburg," he replied, still too astonished to think straight.

"And your father was one of the soldiers who…who …"

"Yes," Gleb answered shortly, "But what happened that night clung to him for the rest of his life. He always looked like there was a weight on him. When he was on leave, he would go out for long solitary walks, sometimes even at night. He got sick after one of those and never recovered. When I asked him what was wrong, he just would shake his head and tell me not to bother him."

Elena shook her head, still incredulous.

"How old were you?" she asked.

Gleb thought for a moment.

"I was about twelve, I think," he replied. "Our house was near to the palace and what I heard that night…changed me. I have never been the same. I was no longer the boy who played ball and booed the old lady down the street. I…_wasn't_ a boy anymore."

"So I'm not alone," Elena said quietly. "To this day, you are the only person who knows what happened to me that night. I would ask that you don't tell anyone. Please." Her face looked suddenly anxious.

Gleb nodded seriously.

"You have my word," he said.

Silence stretched between them for several moments, each standing wrapped in their own thoughts. Elena was the first to speak.

"So I hope you can forgive me, Gleb. What I said this morning was mainly just the old fears and horrors which I had kept hidden for so long. I vented it all on you. _You_ didn't hurt my family. You have been nothing but a wonderful friend to us and I would like you to stay that way."

Gleb sat down on the edge of the desk. He met her eyes and gave a crooked half smile.

"With all my heart," he said. "I did much the same thing to you, Elena. I vented _my_ years of troubles on you and I am frankly disgusted with myself. I lost control and it's _I_ that apologize."

Elena smiled, relief brightening her face like the sun coming from behind a cloud.

"I forgive you a thousand times over!" she exclaimed.

Without a second thought, she sprang forward and hugged him, nearly knocking him flat. She stepped back after a moment and then flushed when she realized what she had just done.

"Sorry," she mumbled, but Gleb laughed.

"Enough apologies for one day," he said.

Elena suddenly clapped her hand over her mouth.

"Oh, your dinner!" she wailed in mock despair. "It'll be cold again!"

Gleb grinned, glad to see that something of the old Elena had returned.

"I suppose that makes your apology void," he growled.

"Well _I_ suppose that means you don't have to eat it," she countered, making as if to carry off the tray.

"And leave me here to _starve_?" he whimpered and they laughed together.

Elena brought the tray over to the desk.

"You can eat here for tonight," she said.

Gleb sank down gratefully into the desk chair and set to with gusto. Elena, at Gleb's suggestion, sat on the floor near the desk with a few bed pillows to make her seat more comfortable. She laughed at her unconventional position and promised to find an extra chair sometime soon. Only when she realized that it was nearly nine did Elena leave and only then after assuring that Gleb was safely in his bed.

"Good night!" she called, closing the door. She hurried towards the stairs, still laughing quietly at a joke he had made just before she left.

"Have a good evening with your boyfriend, Elena?" a teasing voice suddenly whispered from behind her, causing her to whip around.

"Gleb n'est pas mon petit ami, tu mauvaise chat!" she cried under her breath. Blushing furiously, she set off after her giggling younger sister, managing to land a good smack on Marianne's fleeing backside before the younger sister could escape to the relative safety of her bed.

* * *

**French Translation: **Gleb n'est pas mon petit ami, tu mauvaise chat! – Gleb is not my boyfriend, you bad kitty!


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Hi all! SO sorry for the wait :l I have finally come to the reluctant conclusion th****at updating once a week is not really feasible while I am in school. :( I will continue to update, but the updates will probably continue to be sporadic for a while. Sorry y'all! Hope you enjoy the chapter though. Cheers!**

* * *

Doctor Dubois looked at the young man in front of him and sighed. His patient's expression was something between defiant and that of a naughty schoolboy caught in the act of some misdeed. Elena, who was standing behind Gleb, looked a little anxious.

"Monsieur Vaganov, you must be more careful," the doctor said in a resigned voice. "That foot of yours will never heal if you do not rest it. You could be permanently maimed or…"

"I understand," Gleb said coolly.

Dubois spread his hands in a gesture of defeat.

"If you understand, monsieur, then it would be better if you would follow my orders. When I tell you that you must rest and keep the movement of your foot to a minimum, I mean what I say. Your noncompliance in this matter has set back your healing process significantly. The swelling has not gone down to the degree that it should have by this time. Because of this…"

"Excusez-moi, Docteur Dubois," Elena cut in, "may I make a suggestion?"

"But of course, ma chérie," Dubois replied with a smile. He had been doctoring the Dassin family since Henri was born.

"I suggest that you give him crutches. Now I understand what you are saying," she held up her hands to stop the objections that immediately sprang to the doctor's lips. "I know that it would be ideal if he remained quiet a while longer, but as someone who sees this man nearly every day, I can assure you that if he is not allowed some freedom of movement he will go crazy and damage either himself or something else and I am not prepared to deal with that."

Gleb looked up at Elena with a grin that faded as he considered what she had said.

"Probably true," he acceded.

Doctor Dubois voiced the concern that was foremost in his thoughts.

"But Mademoiselle Elena, the moment that I give him crutches he will be flying around doing all manner of ridiculous things. I mean you no offense, monsieur," he turned apologetically to Gleb, "but I have seen it happen before and I do not that want to be the case for you. Your injury is one of the worst ankle fractures I have seen in a long time. If it is disturbed, there could be serious consequences."

"What if I was to make sure that he behaved responsibly?" Elena persisted.

The doctor frowned thoughtfully, stroking his short whiskers. He cocked an eye at Gleb and then at Elena.

"Would he listen to you?" he said bluntly.

A glance passed between Elena and Gleb. Obviously there was something of a _history_ here, Dubois thought to himself. When Elena looked back at the doctor her expression appeared stern, but her eyes twinkled.

"Yes, he would. And if he doesn't, I will paddle him with my wooden spoon until he does."

Gleb twisted around so he could see her.

"_Elena_," he protested laughing. She dropped the façade of severity and laughed with him.

"Well, how else am I supposed to control a big strong man like you," she countered. "The spoon works well enough on my siblings, why not you?"

"You whack your siblings with a _spoon_?"

"Not _always_! It depends on how annoyed I am."

Gleb turned back to the doctor, a mock terrified expression on his face.

"Save me from this monster!" he groaned.

Dubois laughed and reached out to pat his shoulder.

"Very well, if Elena will chaperone you, then I will give you crutches."

"Chaperone?" Gleb raised an eyebrow and looked back at Elena who rolled her eyes.

"You're lucky I've gotten you as much leeway as I have," she told him.

**-xxxx-**

Later that afternoon, Doctor Dubois left the inn. As he closed the door, he shook his head a little anxiously. Gleb had taken to crutches about as well as a fish to a desert. After three nearly disastrous attempts, Dubois had been ready to cancel the whole thing, but Gleb had persisted in trying. _Stubborn boy_, the doctor thought to himself, _if he doesn't re-break his ankle it will be his leg, his arm, or his neck. _

**-xxxx-**

"Well, I'm still alive at least," Gleb said cheerfully. He was sitting in the desk chair, rubbing his elbow after yet another attempt that had nearly cost him the functionality of several limbs.

Elena was sitting on the bed, exhausted.

"You know, I'm beginning to regret that I suggested this," she said to nobody in particular.

Gleb grimaced.

"Easy for you to say. You didn't just almost have your nose forcefully scraped off your face."

Elena let herself fall backwards so she was lying on bed, laughing helplessly. Gleb stared at her with a combination of confusion and amusement.

"What's so funny?" he asked at last.

Elena sat up weakly, wiping her eyes.

"You are!" she gasped. "I don't know why, but the image of you without a nose…" she dissolved into another fit of laughter.

Gleb laughed along with her. He was grateful that they could still laugh together after what had happened. He had never imagined that they would be able to just put the past behind them. As it was, their friendship seemed to have returned stronger than it was before. It was more than he could have ever hoped for.

Several minutes later, when Elena had regained some of her composure, Gleb suggested that he make another attempt at walking. Sighing, Elena stood up from the bed and came over to him.

"Really, Gleb, it's not _that_ hard. Just put them forward _evenly_ and then hop."

"Yes, I know," he groaned in reply, "but somehow I always hop either too short or too long."

His dismal expression set her laughing again and he couldn't help but join in. It was too ridiculous.

The break seemed to have helped him because he managed to stand and _not_ fall over straight away on the second try. _Walking_ with the crutches, however, still needed work. The fact that they were both laughing over half the time didn't help either of them.

It was nearly five thirty in the evening (Doctor Dubois had arrived at one) when Elena finally told him that enough was enough for one day. She knew she would be needed downstairs and _he_ needed a rest. She left, telling him severely that because of his disgraceful performance he would have to wait extra-long for his dinner then laughing at him and closing the door before he could retort.

Left alone in his room, Gleb heaved a sigh and leaned back against his pillows. It had been a long day; long but rewarding. He still had a long way to go with the crutches, but at least he could _move_ again.

When Elena came to bring him his tray he was dozing, but snapped quickly awake when she opened the door.

"I can't stay and talk tonight," she told him. "After abandoning my work for so long, there are some things that I still have to finish."

He looked up apologetically.

"Sorry that I took up so much of your time today," he said ruefully.

"Not at all! I had more fun than I have for a long time."

"Seeing me fall and make an idiot of myself is amusing to you?" Gleb assumed an offended expression.

Elena nodded unabashedly.

"Absolutely!" she said grinning.

He raised an eyebrow and she shrugged.

"At least my dinner doesn't judge me," he mumbled huffily and then grinned as she burst into laughter at such a ridiculous statement.

It did Elena's heart good to see Gleb so cheerful. For most of the time that he had been at the inn, he had been much more reserved and guarded. Now, she could see that he was actually happy. The shadow that had seemed to haunt him for so long wasn't there anymore. She half wondered if this change was because he no longer had to bear his secret alone. Elena had discovered that having someone in her confidence helped to ease her own wounds. She wondered if he felt the same way.

After a little more banter, Elena left to take care of her unfinished tasks. When she closed Gleb's door, it was with a lighter heart than she had had for weeks.


	14. Chapter 14

Quickly looking around to make sure he was alone, Gleb eased himself down onto the first step of the stairs. Trying to be quiet, he shifted both crutches under his left arm. Then, with one more glance around, he slid forward, using his free arm as a guide and keeping his injured foot raised. _Bump, bump, bump, clatter-crash_ (as the crutches banged on the stairs, the walls, or each other)_, various colorful Russian curses, crash-clatter, bump, bang, thump!_

Elena looked up from the dough that she was kneading and laughed as Gleb made his uncomfortable and odd-looking entrance into the kitchen.

"I see that you took me at my word," she said. It's seven-twenty on the nose."

Brushing her hands off on her apron, she hastened over to help him stand. It took a few moments to accomplish, involving a brief panic when Gleb lost his balance and almost toppled them both over. When at last he stood more or less erect, he heaved a long sigh.

"Well here I am," he said with a crooked grin. "Thanks for clearing the kitchen and so preventing my complete mortification in front of everyone."

"It's fortunate you're both punctual and lucky, "she replied, "Mama is currently out serving (that's the lucky part because for the life of me I couldn't think of any way to get her out of the kitchen). I sent the boys out to cut wood, Marianne is picking vegetables, Vera and Vincent are with Mama, and Papa is talking to some customers. If you didn't come down on time you'd be in trouble because like as not, they'll all be back within a few minutes. Your breakfast is at that table over there. That's a good place to start. When you're done, I'll take you out to the bar and get you settled."

A week had gone by since Doctor Dubois had reluctantly consented to providing Gleb with crutches. He could now use them reasonably well and the previous evening, Elena had proposed that he should learn to help Henri at the bar. That way, he would have something constructive to do and Henri wouldn't have to tend the bar on his own. As it was, the arrangement was near perfect.

Unbeknownst Elena or most other people for that matter, Gleb had a rare talent for mixing drinks. It was a skill that he had learned and practiced during his years in the military. His unit commander always liked his drinks just so, and had taught Gleb the secrets of making various concoctions with a great degree of skill. His stint as on-call bartender had ended after being posted to the Leningrad division, but he still would make something fancy for himself once in a while just to keep up his proficiency. Of course most of the mixes Gleb knew would knock a normal person flat after two sips, but it did give him something of a head start when it came to learning to mix the gentler cocktails that were served at _L'Auberge_ _du_ _Miroir_.

The first real obstacle that they encountered was Gleb's lack of fluency when he spoke French. He knew enough to say hello, ask directions, and perhaps carry on a simple conversation, but when it came to dealing with native speakers he was at something of a loss.

_Why does everyone in France speaksoquicklyandslurtheirwords?_ he wondered, baffled by the string of sounds that was erupting from the man across from him with the speed of an onrushing train. His eyes searched the room and lighted on Elena, who was serving a table. As she turned around, he caught her eye and mouthed _Help me!_ in Russian. Elena made her way through the maze of tables and chairs to the bar.

"Excusez-moi pour un moment, monsieur," Gleb said and then hobbled over to where Elena was leaning on the bar top.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly.

Gleb gestured as discreetly as possible to the annoyed-looking customer.

"I cannot understand a… blessed word he says," he muttered.

Elena cocked an eyebrow, "Blessed?"

Gleb flushed a little, "Well you get the idea, but what do I do? I can understand about one in twenty words he says and he's not too pleased with me as I'm sure you can see for yourself."

Elena nodded.

"One moment, let me come around back."

She hurried off and Gleb tried to look as if he was doing something. When she reappeared a few moments, behind the bar this time, he shuffled back so he was next to her.

Elena apologized profusely to the man in French, making some kind of excuse about Gleb being new and then asking for his order. When he grumbled his reply she walked back towards the kitchen and beckoned for Gleb to follow. He caught up with her near the doorway.

"So what does he want?" he asked.

Elena gave a slightly wry grin.

"Hot tea with a shot in it," she replied. "Most people in this village don't count adding alcohol to tea or coffee to be 'drinking' but they come to the bar to get it all the same. Sorry, I should have told you."

"Not at all," Gleb's eyes sparkled mischievously. "Should I add an extra shot? He could use a little slowing down."

Elena tried to smother a laugh with her hand and only succeeded in reducing it to a rather undignified snort.

"I'm sure he could, but don't you _dare_," she whispered furiously, whacking his arm with her dish towel and grinning when he laughed. She disappeared into the kitchen, returning with the steaming cup of tea a few minutes later. Elena put it down on the bar top and turned to Gleb

"Add _one_ shot of bourbon and then mix it well" she told him, handing him a bottle.

Gleb nodded, struggling to keep a straight face.

He fixed the man's spiked tea and set the cup down in front of him, then turned around to where Elena had paused in the doorway of the kitchen to watch him.

"Oh, did you mean that be a French shot or a Russian shot?" he asked innocently and she rolled her eyes and made a face at him.

"You bad boy, intoxicating my customers!"

Gleb laughed and made a "_well you should have told me_" gesture with his hands. Elena shook her head once more and then disappeared into the kitchen again.

**-xxxx- **

Apart from the problem with the man and his tea, Gleb found tending the bar to be fairly simple. It felt good to be doing something constructive again and people seemed to like his drinks. He had made one of his old Russian favorites (slightly weaker of course) for a man who didn't know what to order and the man in question had raved about it so loudly that Gleb had been called on to make several more which were met with a similarly enthusiastic response. That evening, when he had bumped and scraped his way up to his room, he fell into bed with a sigh.

For the first time in weeks he had eaten dinner at a table with other people and been able to talk to someone other than Elena. He had had to be on his guard, of course, but it was nice all the same. When he finally dropped off to sleep, he was both peaceful and content. For the first time in months, he felt safe.

* * *

**French Translation:**

Excusez-moi pour un moment, monsieur - Excuse me for a moment, sir


	15. Chapter 15

**Guess whose muse decided to check in and make them write until two in the morning? *sigh* Anyway, sorry for the wait (again) and hopefully this fickle muse of mine will stick around for a little longer so I can get a couple more chapters up soon. Cheers!**

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When Gleb woke up, he lay still for a moment. Something was different, but he couldn't quite put his finger in it. What had happened? And then he knew what it was. For the first time in weeks, he hadn't dreamt about Anya. The knowledge gave him a strange feeling with too many emotions in it to easily identify what it really was. Unsettled? Pleased? Sad? Lonely? Relieved? After a few minutes, he gave up. Getting up carefully, he got dressed and ready for the day.

To Gleb's great satisfaction, his shifts as bartender where only improving. His Russian cocktails were a new favorite with several customers. The only thing that had gone wrong so far was that on the third day, Elena hadn't managed to rid the kitchen of her mother. Mme. Dassin had laughed good-naturedly at his awkward expression as he bumped clumsily into the kitchen.

"So this is why Elena has been so keen to get rid of all of us lately. I thought that she'd suddenly taken a disliking to her family," was her only comment, accompanied by a wink and a motherly smile. Gleb found himself draw to Elena's mother. He had been without one for many years and sensed in her the same loving concern for the human race in general that his own mother had shown. It was bittersweet for him to see someone that reminded him so much of her. Ekaterina Ivanovna Vaganova had been a sweet yet delicate woman. She had never recovered from her husband's death and had followed Mikhail to the grave a bare two months later. Her death had left a hole in Gleb's heart that nothing had been able to fill. Over the years, he had learned to ignore how he felt and carry on with his life, his work, his father's legacy. Until…

Gleb sighed and looked at the clock. If he didn't hurry, he'd be embarrassed in front of more people than just Mme. Dassin and Elena.

He made his way into the hallway. As he lowered himself down at the head of the stairs, one of his crutches slipped from his grasp and slid down the stairs, clattering noisily. Gleb cursed and then bit his tongue. He'd been trying to curb his language lately. Elena's remark about him "cursing like a sailor" had stuck with him and he was determined to overcome his habit of using profanity.

Elena appeared at the bottom of the stairs, her face a picture of concern.

"Are you alright?" she asked, hurrying up to where he sat.

"Just mortified," he replied rubbing his face with his free hand. "I suppose every man, woman, and child in this building is about to come running to see what caused the racket."

Elena raised one eyebrow.

"Hardly," she said then seemed to think for a moment. "Just most of them," she added.

Gleb groaned and struggled upright.

"I am going to learn to use my crutches on the stairs if it kills me," he declared.

Elena sighed.

"You know, Gleb, the trouble is it might do just that."

**-xxxx-**

By the time that Gleb had reached the bar, two of the regulars were already waiting. He hurried about as fast as his crutches, and the various new bumps and bruises that he had gotten that morning, allowed. Elena already had a pot of tea made up in the kitchen, so all he had to do was add the correct amount alcohol to each cup: Bourbon for the thin grey man and Scotch for the one with the whiskers.

It had been decided that Gleb would take over the early shift since he could easily handle the few customers that came in, leaving Henri free to help with the outside work. Around noon, he would go on kitchen duty: chopping, peeling, and generally making himself useful while not getting in the way. As the inn filled up for the evening, however, Gleb would be back at the bar to help Henri. Gleb had found that he liked all three. After the quiet shift in the morning, the chatty kitchen environment was a welcome change and the evening bar shift was exciting, even if it was a little stressful at times. On the whole, after two weeks of work, Gleb was well pleased with the new arrangement and the rest of the Dassin family seemed glad to have an extra pair of helping hands.

**-xxxx-**

Gleb set the glass down and deftly poured a shot which he slid in front of the man who was seated before him.

"Voilà, monsieur!"

The man took the glass with fumbling hands. Gleb watched his clumsy movements with considerable amusement. Practically raised in the Russian military as he was, the sight of someone getting tipsy after a bare two shots was something of an absurd novelty for him. Now he smothered a laugh as the man in question banged his glass back down on the bar top.

"Plus!" he mumbled, almost falling off his bar stool.

Gleb cocked an eyebrow at him.

"You've had more than is good for you, my friend," he said in Russian, shaking his head.

The man blinked owlishly at him.

"Que…?"

Gleb sighed. Did he get more alcohol for this man who was clearly drunk off his arse or did he cut him off?

Glancing down the length of the bar, Gleb's eye was caught by a small flurry of movement where a new customer had pushed his way forward. Seeing that Henri was already engaged with someone else, he left the tipsy Frenchman swaying on his stool, grabbed his crutches from where he had propped them against the wall, and hurried to this newest man, who was sitting hunched on his stool, apparently studying the bar top.

"Bonsoir, monsieur. Puis-je vous aider?" he asked.

The man glanced up and Gleb had to fight the sudden urge to drop his crutches and run from the room. It was Konstantin Aleksandrov, Supreme Commander of the Leningrad division and one of the most feared men in the entirety of the Bolshevik military. His ridged face and steel-grey hair left no doubt of it: they had caught him at last.

Gleb stood there, too shocked to do much more than stare. He could feel sweat break out all over him and his heart pounded in his chest as though it would fall out.

"Un shot de vodka, s'il vous plait," Gleb started as the man spoke. His heavy Russian accent made the words all but undecipherable and once he had given his order, he looked back down at the bar top, seemingly uninterested in his surroundings.

Gleb still stood frozen for a moment and then gave a belated nod and hurried to the rack where they kept the shot glasses and then to the bottle section where he selected a fine Finnish vodka. He set the glass down in front of Konstantin and poured the shot with trembling hands.

The Russian officer grabbed it quickly and tossed it back with the air of long practice.

With a sigh, he set it back down and glanced up at Gleb, seeming to hesitate as if in thought, and then simply gestured to his empty glass and then to the bottle which Gleb still held clutched in his hand. _Pour me another, boy_, the gesture said. Gleb obliged and Konstantin tossed it back with the same ease as the first. Somewhat to Gleb's surprise, the officer gestured to his glass again. _How many is he doing in a row?_ Gleb wondered, but poured a third shot as well. This time, however, Konstantin sipped it slowly, taking no more notice of the young man before him.

After standing just long enough to make sure he was no longer needed, Gleb turned and bolted for the kitchen as fast as he could manage on his crutches. Right as he reached the threshold, however, something made him turn.

Looking back down the bar, he could see Konstantin still nursing his vodka. Beyond the man's head, a sudden light appeared as the door to the inn was opened. The sun was setting outside and its slanting rays glinted on the golden hair of the young woman who had just entered. A taller, dark-haired man followed the woman, closing the door behind them, but Gleb barely even registered his presence. One look at the face of the woman who had just arrived, and he could feel what blood was left in his own face drain away. It was Anya.

* * *

**French Translation:**

Plus! – More!

Que…? – What…?

Bonsoir, monsieur. Puis-je vous aider? – Good evening, mister. Can I help you?

Un shot de vodka, s'il vous plait – A shot of vodka, please.

**A/N** \- Konstantin Aleksandrov is a completely fictitious. The actual commander of Leningrad/St. Petersburg in the 1920's was a man named Mikhail Tukachevsky. I found his name in the Google Books version of _Leningrad: State of Siege_. I think they have a little more information on him there if anyone's interested.


	16. Chapter 16

Uhhhh...Ok I'm sooooooo sorry guys! I never thought it would be this long! :( I hope you enjoy this chapter. Cheers!

* * *

Anya. Gleb stood there, frozen to the ground. Staring at her from across the room, he felt the same odd rush all over him as when he first met her, but this time it was different. This time it was tinged with cold fear. As Anya and Dmitry made their way through the crowded room toward an empty table, they passed the bar. Gleb gave a start and glanced inadvertently to where Konstantin sat. If he recognized Anya…

_ From his position on the corner, Gleb had a good view of the passersby for quite a distance. His eyes roved back and forth, taking in the various citizens of Leningrad going about their daily tasks. It was a cold and monotonous job, one that nobody liked. Street patrol in the winter was usually something he gave to the lesser officers, but today he had announced he was doing it himself. When one of the other men had queried him, he had managed to come up with some vague excuse about wanting fresh air. Now he was standing, fingers and toes an uncomfortable combination of numb and tingling, on one of the street corners of the Nevsky Prospekt. _

_ He caught a flash of blond out of the corer of his eye and turned to look more closely. Sure enough, he made out the hunched figure of Anya, slowly trudging down the street. Her broom dangled loosely in her hand and her eyes were on the ground. A flash of concern ran through him. Was she ill? She certainly wasn't acting like the industrious girl she usually was. He started forward towards her and then skidded to a stop._

_ "Hey you!" the sharp voice made him jump. Looking to the left he saw the impressive figure of Comrade Konstantin Aleksandrov, Supreme Commander of the Leningrad division, striding purposefully through the crowd, flanked by two officers._

_ "You! The street sweeper! What do you think you are doing?"_

_ Gleb frowned. Were they talking to Anya? One look in her direction confirmed it. She had gone rigidly upright, clutching her broom with white knuckled hands._

_ "Are…are you talking to me, comrade?" she stammered._

_ "Yes, you!" Konstantin walked up to Anya and stood, dominating her with his superior height. "What are you doing, dragging you broom along instead of sweeping? Is that the kind of behavior a good and loyal citizen of Russia shows?" _

_ He paused, as though he expected her to speak, but when she did not reply he continued, "I am ashamed to see such an indolent woman in the streets of my city! What is your name, comrade?"_

_ Gleb could feel his hands slowly clenching into fists. Indolent! Anya was one of the hardest working people he had ever seen. How dare he call her indolent! Plenty of girls her age would much rather sell themselves in the back alleys than do an honest day's work!_

_ "My name is Anya, comrade." Despite the fear that still haunted her voice, Gleb could hear a note of pride in it. Konstantin looked suddenly thoughtful._

_ "Anya? Are you the same girl that was brought in a few days ago?"_

_ "Yes, comrade."_

_ "Ah, I see. Who spoke to you?"_

_ "Deputy Commissioner Vaganov."_

_ Konstantin frowned, "I trust that he made your situation clear to you?"_

_ Anya stood up a little straighter._

_ "He made it very clear, comrade. I understand completely and have…taken his words to heart." _

_ Konstantin nodded. _

_ "Very well comrade. I would suggest that you get on with your work. It would be a shame if you were to lose your job because of _idleness_." He spit out the last word like a dagger. Turing on his heel, he strode away down the street. _

_ Anya stood for a moment than, giving a frosty glance at the little crowd that had gathered, she began to hurry down the street in Gleb's direction, her whole body straight and rigid as an arrow. As she came closer, however, he could see that she was fighting back tears. _

_ Gleb stood rooted in an agony of indecision. What should he do? Should he try to comfort her? Or would that only make things worse? She didn't see him as she walked past, but he continued to gaze after her tense form long after it had been swallowed up into the crowd…_

"Gleb! Are you alright?" Elena's voice brought Gleb back to earth. She was standing in front of him, her hand on his arm and a concerned expression on her face.

He looked one more time at the figure of Konstantin Aleksandrov sitting at the bar and then to where Anya and Dmitry were sitting down at a table not far away. He turned back to Elena and shook his head.

"No," he said.

Her concerned expression deepened. "What's wrong then, Gleb?"

"Don't use my name!" his voice was urgent and he spoke so low that Elena had to strain to hear him above the noise of conversation. "There are people in this room who would recognize it!"

Elena gave a quiet gasp and tugged on his arm.

"Then come into the kitchen and out of sight," she said quietly.

To her great surprise he shook his head. Glancing around to make sure that there was no one close by, he suddenly leaned forward and spoke quietly into her ear.

"I need your help. Anya is here and Konstantin _must not_ see her. If he recognizes her it'll be over for both of us."

Elena frowned.

"Who's Konstantin?" she whispered back.

Gleb made an annoyed sound in his throat.

"He's the slightly balding man in the dark grey coat," he replied, glancing down the bar as casually as he could. "He's right next to the man who likes Crème de Menthe in his coffee."

Elena searched the row with her eyes for a few seconds, nodding as she found Konstantin among the other patrons. She stepped sideways a little, allowing Gleb to turn his back on the bar.

"Would this Konstantin recognize you?" she whispered.

Gleb took a deep breath and shook his head.

"I gave him a couple of shots a little while ago and he didn't seem to. I…"

"Comrade Aleksandrov!"

Gleb gave a start and Elena heard him curse in Russian under his breath.

"Oh please no," he murmured quietly.

Peering around him, Elena could see that Konstantin had been joined by another man. The new arrival was middle aged and somewhat stocky of build with a prominent nose and a sharp chin. As she watched, Konstantin stood and greeted the other man with surprise.

"Comrade Gorlinsky! What are you doing here?" his voice was pleasantly surprised. The two men shook hands and then sat down at the bar together.

Next to her, Elena heard Gleb curse again and when she glanced up at his face, she saw that he had grown even paler.

"Who is Gorlinsky?" she whispered.

Gleb sighed.

"Oh no one," he muttered bitterly. "He just happens to be one of my commanding officers, the one who gave me the mission of tracking Anya to Paris. _He_ would recognize both of us in an instant."

Elena gave a small gasp and clutched Gleb's arm.

"They're looking over," she murmured.

"Hey toi! Barman!" Konstantin's accented voice carried over the sound of conversation.

"I'll go! You get into the kitchen!" Elena gave Gleb a little shove to get him going and then headed to where the two Russians were sitting.

"Bon soir, monsieurs. De quoi avez-vous besoin?"she asked, plastering a professional smile onto her face.

Konstantin grunted.

"Un shot de vodka pour mon ami," he replied. "Le meme genre qu'avant."

"Oui, monsieur. Savez-vous le nom de le vodka que vous avez bu?" Elena asked and the officer shrugged.

"Je ne sais pas," he replied. "La bouteille a eu une étiquette bleue."

Elena nodded and moved to search through the vodka for a blue labeled bottle. Grabbing the first one she found, she got a glass and then returned to the bar top. As she walked up, the two men were chatting in Russian. Gorlinsky briefly nodded his thanks when she poured his glass and then tossed it off. He gestured for her to refill and turned back to Konstantin.

"Do you think that he's being held prisoner in Paris, comrade? Like I said in my report, I had sent him a message nearly a month ago, but the carrier reported that he wasn't able to locate him."

Konstantin snorted.

"He's no fool, Comrade Gorlinsky. He takes after his father in that way. If he is in trouble, he will find a way to contact us. In the meantime, I am sending three new agents into Paris to see if they can pick up a lead. Even if they can't find the girl, they may be able to discover some new information on Vaganov."

Elena started, splashing vodka on the bar top. Setting down the bottle, she mopped up the spilled alcohol with trembling hands. If they saw Gleb… she shuddered at the thought. Setting the bottle down on the back counter, Elena hurried for the kitchen.

* * *

French Translation:

~ Hey toi! Barman! - Hey you! Bartender! (A/N: In French, the polite, formal word for you is "vous". By using "toi" Konstantin was being deliberately informal and rude.)

~ Bon soir, monsieurs. De quoi avez-vous besoin? - Good evening, gentlemen. What do you need?

~ Un shot de vodka pour mon ami...Le meme genre qu'avant - A vodka shot for my friend. The same type as before.

~ Oui, monsieur. Savez-vous le nom de le vodka que vous avez bu? - Yes, sir. Do you know the name of the vodka you drank?

~ Je ne sais pas. La bouteille a eu une étiquette bleue. - I don't know. The bottle had a blue label.


	17. Chapter 17

Elena rushed through the kitchen door, only to crash into Gleb who was hovering anxiously just inside it. She gave a small gasp and, seeing who it was, grabbed his arm and tugged him farther into the kitchen.

"Gleb, they're looking for you!" she hissed, "I overheard them saying that they have been unsuccessfully trying to get in touch with 'Vaganov' and are sending new agents to Paris in the hopes of finding a lead."

Gleb frowned, considering this turn of events.

"So what now?" he murmured, glancing out through the door. Suddenly Elena saw him stiffen.

"Oh, what's wrong now?" she groaned quietly.

Gleb's eyes were locked on the table were Anya was sitting.

"Dmitry," his eyes were roving the room in increasing consternation. "Where has that blasted scamp got to?"

He turned back to Elena.

"Listen," he said. "Dmitry isn't at their table anymore. She's all by herself. I need to warn her to get out of here. It was bad enough when it was just Konstantin, he's only seen her once and me a handful of times so while he's a danger, he's probably not a deadly one. Gorlinsky, on the other hand, would recognize both of us in a moment."

"HellOOOoo! What are you doing? I need your help!" Henri stuck his head in the kitchen door causing them both to jump.

The oldest Dassin boy frowned, taking in the small amount of space separating Gleb from his sister and the way they were leaning towards each other. He raised a scathing eyebrow.

"You will have plenty of time for _that_ after the lunch crowd leaves, but for now, I could use some help over here!"

Both flushed an unbecoming shade of scarlet and tried to edge away from each other as subtly as possible. Gleb starting to say something, but Elena cut him off.

"I'm sure Gleb's foot could use a rest," she said hurriedly. "He's been up and about for a while. I'll be right out, let me just get a fresh apron."

Henri frowned, muttered something about not having time for romantics during lunch hour, and went back to serving the bar.

Still flushed, Elena turned back to Gleb.

"Should I give them a couple of free drinks to try and dim their wits a little while you get over to Anya and warn her?" she asked, untying her apron strings.

Gleb frowned thoughtfully.

"Just try to keep them distracted," he said. "Buy me some time."

Elena nodded, tossing her dirty apron into the bin near the door.

"Give me two minutes." She grabbed a fresh apron from a nearby hook and went out to the bar.

**xxxx**

For Gleb, the next two minutes were unbearably slow. He was in fever of adrenaline and anticipation, tapping his fingers impatiently on the handles of his crutches. After the allotted two minutes, he cautiously peered around the doorframe. Down at the far end of the bar, Elena was pouring what appeared to be some kind of spirit for the two Russians. She was on their right, shielding the other door, which led into the main dining area, from their view. With a muttered "Bless you Elena!" he hurried through the kitchen and around to it.

When he reached the other door, he once again peered around the frame carefully and saw that Elena was in the same position as before and both men seemed deeply interested in trying whatever drink she had given them.

As unobtrusively as he could while walking with crutches, Gleb hurried out of the door and headed into the mass of bodies and voices that was the main eating area. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw Elena was still talking to the two men. She met his eyes for a moment and gave a discreet nod.

Moving carefully so as not to trip on anyone's wayward limbs, Gleb made his way to Anya's table. She was facing away from him, idly tapping her fingers as she studied the menu.

Gleb stood for a moment, his heart in his mouth. He could feel his hands shaking and gripped his crutches harder, trying to force himself to breathe calmly. He could feel Elena's eyes on him and knew that he didn't have much time.

"Can-can I get you something to drink, mademoiselle?"

Anya's head snapped up at the sound of the question spoken in her native language. She took one look at his face, and then went deathly pale. She started up, but he grasped her arm.

"Sit down!" he whispered urgently, "your life could depend on it."

"Are you threatening me, comrade?" her voice shook a little, but the steely tone he remembered so well brought a lump to his throat.

"No! I'm trying to protect you. May I please sit down here for a moment? Standing like this will attract too much attention."

Anya's eye's flitted around, no doubt searching for Dmitry, but seeing that he was nowhere in sight, she slowly sank back into her sitting position and motioned for him to do the same.

He gave a quiet sigh of relief and sat down across from her, careful to keep his crutches from clattering. He took a deep breath and plunged in.

"I don't have much time," he said quietly. "There are two men here who pose great danger to both of us."

Anya went to speak, but he held up his hand.

"Please, like I said, I don't have much time. Do you remember Commissioner Gorlinsky and Commander Aleksandrov?"

Anya nodded nervously. She wasn't sure where he was going with this, but she didn't like it.

"They are both sitting at the bar almost directly behind you."

She gave a quite gasp of fright, her eyes going wide in her pale face; those same vibrantly blue eyes that had first cast a worm of doubt into his mind. They still fascinated him, making it hard to focus despite the danger.

"What are you going to do?" her voice sounded strained.

"If they see either of us, we're dead," he said quietly.

Anya nodded. She knew as well as he did what happened when Bolsheviks captured wanted criminals.

"So…what are you planning to do?" she whispered.

"I'm going to take you outside and …oh no."

"What is it?" Anya asked fearfully.

Gleb cursed.

"Quick! Hand me that menu and don't turn around whatever you do."

She handed him her menu and he held it up, hunching down so that it hid his face.

Someone brushed by her chair. There was a laugh and whoever had just passed turned and spoke to his companion. In Russian.

"Do you really have some? It's been so long since I've seen a good Russian _Papirosy_!"

"Of course! I never travel far without one. French tobacco is dreadful in my opinion. It's too sweet."

Anya felt shivers run down her spine. She recognized both voices and knew what would happen if their owners happened to look her way. As casually as she could, she propped one elbow on the table and rested her cheek in her hand, screening her face from view.

The door opened and closed again. Gleb slowly lowered the menu. They stared at each other, both completely terrified. He found his voice first.

"That was too close for comfort," he muttered. "Come with me."

They both stood and Gleb headed to the kitchen. He looked back over his shoulder to make sure Anya was following and saw that she had hesitated.

"What about Dmitry?" she asked.

Gleb cursed quietly to himself.

"I'll have Elena bring him around to the back. Now _please _come on before they come back!"

With a final reluctant glance around the room, Anya hurried after him.

* * *

I might as well just give up on apologies for being late *sigh* I am truly sorry though. There might be another update in the not-to-distant future, but it all depends on whether this lazy muse of mine WAKES UP! I feel like she needs a name, what do y'all think? Also, Random Russian Fact of the Day, the Bolshevik government worked to eliminate the use of tobacco. Lenin apparently detested it and started an anti-smoking movement along with the Commissariat for Public Health. (For the history nerds among you, the article I found is called "A Revolutionary Attack on Tobacco: Bolshevik Antismoking Campaigns in the 1920s" I stumbled across it when I was trying to find names of Russian cigar brands in the 1920's. Oh the things we do for stories!) Anyhoo, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Cheers!


	18. Chapter 18

Elena met them at the door.

"Gleb, what on earth do you think you're doing?" she demanded.

"I'm taking her through and out the back," he replied impatiently. "We can't just saunter out the door when those two are having a smoke out there.

Elena shook her head.

"How on earth are you supposed to get through the kitchen without causing a ruckus? Customers aren't allowed in there!"

Gleb groaned and rubbed his forehead distractedly.

"I don't _know_! I hadn't gotten that far yet! We both just need to get out of sight _right now_!"

"What about hiding upstairs for a while?" Elena suggested. "Depending on where those men are standing, there is a good chance that they would be able to see you from the kitchen side door.

Gleb cursed audibly and was rewarded by a sharp smack on the arm by Elena.

"Watch your tongue," she said sharply.

Gleb sucked in a vastly irritated breath.

"What is it that you suggest we do, Elena?" he asked heatedly.

She frowned in thought.

"Go up to your room via main staircase! No one would go there so it'll be safe and you can hide for a while. We can reconnoiter later depending on whether or not the men stay."

"What about Dmitry?" Anya broke in.

"Who's he?"

"Her boyfriend." Gleb said shortly.

"Fiancé actually," Anya replied.

Blushing a little, she lifted her hand, displaying the circle of gold set with a small diamond which she was wearing on her fourth finger.

Elena glanced quickly at Gleb's face, noting how tense and well…sad he looked. Her heart twisted with sympathy. She knew all too well how it felt to care for a person who didn't return the feeling and how hard it was to see them in love with someone else.

"Is he in danger too then?" she asked.

"I would think so," Gleb replied, a note of contempt creeping into his voice. "Considering how many times he was brought in."

Anya frowned, but made no comment.

"So where is he?" Elena turned and scanned the dining room.

"I don't know." Anya bit her lip, following Elena's gaze. "He went to find the bathroom several minutes ago, but he should probably be back by now."

"I'll keep an eye out for him. In the meantime, you two get upstairs. When I see Dmitry, I'll bring him up."

"Elena!" Henri's impatient voice floated through the doorway.

"Go!" she turned back to the kitchen door.

"Elena, wait!" Gleb caught her arm. "How do I get to my room from the main stairs?"

Elena sighed in impatience and rapidly gave a long series of directions that left both Gleb and Anya feeling vaguely confused.

"Now _go_!" she hissed and ducked through the doorway, crashing into Henri who had come to see what was taking so long. She hastily dragged her brother back into the kitchen before he could see Anya, ignoring his irate inquiries and protestations.

Gleb and Anya headed for the staircase. They had just reached the bottom when the door opened. Anya glanced back and gave a gasp of fear.

"They're coming back inside!" she cried quietly.

"Go! Go!" Gleb gestured frantically up the stairs.

Anya needed no further encouragement. She slipped by him and ran up the steps. Praying that he wouldn't be noticed, Gleb followed as fast as he could. Suddenly a loud voice that definitely _didn't_ belong to either Borislave Gorlinsky or Konstantin Aleksandrov boomed over the chatter of the diners.

" Bonsoir, Monsieur Dassin! Aujourd'hui était une belle jour, n'était pas?"

Gleb glanced over his shoulder and gave vent to a huge sigh of relief.

"Oh, that was just another of the local men coming in. Our…friends are still outside. Thank heaven above!"

Anya looked as relieved as he felt. When Gleb reached the top of the stairs, they stood silent for a moment, each letting their racing pulse calm a little.

"Now, what was Elena's first direction? A right then two lefts?"

**xxxx**

It took them several minutes to find the right hallway. Only when he had closed the door of his room behind them did Gleb realize how awkward this situation really was. Glancing over, he saw that she was eyeing him somewhat warily and he flushed scarlet. Looking for an escape and following the force of an old habit, he made his way to the window and stood leaning on his crutches and looking out. Anya remained standing uncomfortably in the middle of the room for a moment before sitting down in the extra chair that Elena had brought up for when she and Gleb talked or played games.

The silence dragged on and on, becoming more uncomfortable and awkward with each passing second. At last, Gleb couldn't bear it any longer.

"France is really quite beautiful in the summer." He winced both at the words and the forced tone they were delivered in and wished fervently that they had never left his mouth. Anya glanced at him and shrugged.

"Indeed," she replied with guarded casualness.

"Do you like it?" Gleb could have knocked himself on the head.

"Yes, I think it is quite lovely," she said.

Silence descended upon them again. Gleb gnawed on his lip. Suddenly he spun around and faced Anya directly, causing her to start up in alarm.

"Anya, I am deeply, deeply sorry," he said.

She stared, her eyes looking suddenly wide and suspicious.

"For what?" she asked warily.

Gleb ran his hands though his hair, trying to force his jumbled thoughts into something resembling intelligible speech.

"For frightening you, for tracking you, for threatening you, for holding you at gunpoint, for denying who you were, for separating you from your family, for-for _this_!" he gestured helplessly around the room, indicating the awkwardness and tension between them with a sweep of his hands. "It seems everything I've ever done to you is terrible and threatening. That's not how it should be, not how I wanted it to be and…and I want to apologize."

The suspicion faded a little from her face.

"Why are you sorry? You were doing your job," she said.

Gleb shook his head.

"I'm sorry because by doing what I did, I frightened and hurt you. You who deserve so much more than your cruel life has given you. I never want to see you hurt or frightened, Anya. I never have."

"Why are you saying this?"

"Because I feel like a monster." The words were spoken quietly, but they were no less sincere for the fact.

"You are not a monster, com…Gleb. They tried to make you one, but they failed."

Gleb felt a little shiver run up his back and tingle in his fingers when he heard his name on her lips, just as it had in his office in Leningrad so long ago. He shook it aside.

"What do you mean they failed? I threatened you and then tracked you down and tried to kill you. I followed _they're_ orders."

"You did _not_ follow they're orders," Anya replied sharply, "or else you would have killed me on sight. You did not. You let me go free even though you knew you would be killed yourself for such an act. I will admit that you frightened me; maybe even hurt me, but on the inside, Gleb, you were – and are still the man who had the decency and kindness to help up a filthy street-sweeper and offer her tea. I have forgiven you for what you've done or at least I want to. Some things take time to heal, but at the very least, I hold no grudge against you for what you did."

Gleb stood struck completely speechless.

"I-I don't' know how to thank you. You are far kinder to me than I deserve," he said a last with a shake of his head.

Anya walked over and stood beside him, looking out the window and he stepped back to allow her a clearer view. There was silence between them for several minutes. The sun had sunk beneath the hills and a dusky twilight was settling over the inn. The dim light from the window illuminated Anya's face and Gleb caught himself staring at her, mesmerized by the soft curve of her jaw and the delicate yet impudent tilt of her nose. Her stunning blue eyes looked soft and thoughtful.

"How did you end up here?" Anya asked suddenly.

Briefly, Gleb recounted how he had hurt his ankle shortly after fleeing Paris, how Elena had found him and brought him to the inn where he had stayed ever since, and how he had recently taken up the task of barman.

"I do enjoy it here," he added. "The people are kind and Elena had become a good friend. She is the only one who knows who I really am."

Anya looked up at him quickly.

"Does she know…?" the question hung unfinished, but he understood nonetheless.

"She does know of you," Gleb said slowly, "but you have nothing to fear. She is a trustworthy girl. Elena has had reason enough to betray me, her family has had something of a _history_ with Bolsheviks in the past, but she never once has even hinted at my identity to her family or anyone else."

Anya searched his face for a moment and then turned back to the window, seemingly satisfied that if Gleb trusted someone to keep his secrets, her's were safe with them as well.

"What about you?" Gleb asked after a moment. "What are you doing in this part of France?"

"Dmitry and I are actually just passing thought. We're traveling to Valencia where we plan to be married by an old priest friend of Nana's. She insisted on paying the fare although she was rather doubtful about us traveling without a chaperone." Anya rolled her eyes, blushing. "As if we didn't travel all the way to Paris with no one but Vlad who probably wouldn't qualify as a chaperone for a children's picnic! We both promised faithfully to be very proper, but she didn't seem convinced. I guess she just doesn't trust Dmitry. He would never do anything improper of course. If he even suggested it I'd kill him and he knows it, but that doesn't matter. He cares about me too much for that."

Gleb glanced down at Anya's flushed face, her arms crossed across her chest and felt a cold hand clench around his heart.

"I'm glad you've been able to start a new life," he said quietly.

Anya's faced softened and she started to reply, but at that moment the door burst open. Both of them spun around and saw Elena panting in the doorway.

"The Russian men are back inside!" she said.

"Did you find Dmitry?" Anya gasped, looking suddenly pale.

Elena nodded and Anya gave a heavy sigh of relief.

"He's currently hiding in a very uncomfortable position behind the kitchen door."

Gleb frowned.

"Do you think that you can get him out back without anyone noticing?" he asked.

Elena considered for a few seconds and then nodded.

"I probably could, but like I said earlier, there is no way that you two will be able to come down without raising the roof."

Gleb rubbed his temples. Suddenly he straightened, his face lighting with a sudden idea.

"Can you climb?" he asked turning to Anya.

"Like a cat, though these stupid heeled shoes might make it more difficult."

"You can always take them off. Elena, get Dmitry out back as soon as you can. Come with me, Anya. I think I've found a solution to our problem."

**xxxx**

"Can you climb down that?" Gleb asked, gesturing to the vines that covered the wall. "They are plenty strong. I've climbed down here before and they held me alright."

Anya peered over the railing of the balcony and studied the vines.

"Oh yes, that should be easy enough," she said.

Bending down, she pulled off her heeled slippers and tossed them down into the garden, then seated herself astride the railing and prepared to follow. Gleb caught her arm before she could climb off the railing.

"No, Anya! Wait until Dmitry comes out! There's too great a chance of you being seen if you wait down there."

Anya frowned, but nodded and slid her leg back onto the balcony. They stood for a moment in silence

"I guess this is goodbye then," Anya said softly.

Gleb swallowed.

"Yeah, I guess so," he said, his voice not as steady as he would have liked. "It's-it's been nice seeing you again, Anya."

She smiled and the sight took his breath away, just like it always had.

"Yes, it has," she agreed. "I'm glad that that part of the past is settled. For both of us."

Gleb nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Thank you for…forgiving and moving on," he said at last.

She dipped her head in acknowledgment and looked out over the darkening grounds of the inn.

"Thank _you_ for being the man you are," she said. "You were willing to help me when I was just an ordinary street sweeper and you still are helping me now, after everything that's happened."

"Anya, I…I've always wanted to help you," he choked out.

She hugged him. He gasped, taking in the closeness and the sweet scent of orange blossoms that hung about her. The scent that he still remembered so well from that night in Paris. Many times he had thought about holding her, many times he had dreamed about it, but actually feeling her in his arms quite literally took his breath away. He concentrated on every detail, imprinting it into his memory.

Gleb felt her pulling back after a moment and he reluctantly let her go. She moved a half step back, her hands coming to rest on his arms.

"I'm so happy, Gleb," she whispered. "I'm so glad that you have managed to move past who you were; to break out of the cage you were trapped in. You have a new life now. You found a home and a family here, just as I did. _Neither _of us is alone anymore, though I know we've both paid a heavy price for our freedom. I'm proud to have you for a friend and a countryman, Gleb Vaganov."

Her words tore his heart with both happiness and sorrow. Happiness that she cared about him; that she was _proud_ of him and considered him a friend despite everything he'd done. Sorrow that she didn't care enough; that he had found her to lose her once more and that they would probably never meet again.

As they stood there on the balcony, neither sure what to do, Gleb suddenly realized how close she still was. His heart gave a sudden lurch and he glanced down involuntarily to her rosy lips, parted slightly as she gazed up into his face. There was a pause, every moment seeming a lifetime to him.

He wanted so _desperately_ to kiss her, knowing that he would never have another chance. For months now, he had been dreaming of the soft touch of her lips and he longed to make it a memory and not just a dream. It would be something that no goodbye, no separation could every take away from him. But it would be wrong. Her heart did not belong to him. He knew that now and it was not for him to take what someone else had earned.

There was a sudden rustle from below as the kitchen side door was opened. Anya reached down and caught his hands, squeezing them gently.

"Goodbye, Gleb," she whispered and turning, she climbed quickly over the balcony railing and clamored down the vines, Gleb drew back a towards the wall of the house feeling cold and alone, the remnants of the adrenaline rush still running through his limbs.

As Anya's feet hit the ground, a figure burst from around the wall.

"Anya!" he cried softly, relief flooding his voice.

"Oh, Dmitry!"

He caught her in his arms and she melted into his embrace.

"I was so worried!" he murmured into her hair. "Those men…"

She gripped him tighter.

"They didn't catch us, thank goodness," she sighed. "we're safe and we have each other."

Dmitry reached up and cradled her chin softly in his hands.

"My darling," he murmured and kissed her. Anya wrapped her arms lovingly around his waist

"I love you, _kotonok_," she said softly when they had pulled apart. "Now let's get out of here before we _are_ caught."

Dmitry hugged her tightly once more and then let her go. Anya searched quickly for her shoes and taking them in one hand, she grabbed his with the other and they hurried off, heading for the woodshed. From there they would be able to strike out across the nearby field and get back to the road without coming in view of the inn.

**xxxx**

Long after they'd disappeared from view, Gleb stood on the balcony. He had moved forward to the railing again and was grasping it in white knuckled hands, struggling to control himself. The pain he felt was too deep for words. To have found her, his Anya, only to lose her again…

But she wasn't _his_ Anya. She never had been and she never would be. She loved Dmitry and _nothing_ would ever change the fact. She had never loved him, he realized that now and the understanding brought a sharp ache to his chest that was bitter to bear. It was even worse than when they had parted in Paris. Then, he could at least fantasize about her when he was alone at night, thinking that just maybe she cared, that she _might_ love him. Now even that small comfort was gone, leaving only emptiness and sorrow. Anya had said that he had found a home and a family, but he had never felt so alone in his life.

**xxxx**

Elena found him there hours later, sitting with his back to the wall and staring off into the distance with bitter, tearless eyes. She saw the ridged set of his shoulders and suddenly, she was reminded sharply of how Gleb had been when he had first arrived the inn; before he had opened up and shown the person he really was behind the masks and walls he had created for himself. She paused, debating on whether she should approach him.

"Gleb?" she asked hesitantly.

She saw him shift a little and knew that he had heard her. Softly, she walked over and sat down beside him, resisting the temptation to glance up at his face.

"It's late. You should come in and rest."

"I don't need rest."

Elena winced. His voice was taught a bowstring with the grief and emotion that he was obviously struggling to control.

"You did the right thing, Gleb."

He gave a humorless huffing laugh.

"Oh, sure I did," he said bitterly.

Elena sat still for a moment then reached over and laid her hand on his shoulder. He flinched at the touch.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked softly.

"No," he drew a trembling breath. "She has never loved me, Elena. Never."

He dropped his eyes to the ground. Elena felt her heart constrict with pity. Hoping that she wasn't overstepping, she shifted closer and wrapped her arm around his back, hugging him from the side. He stiffened for a moment and then relaxed, leaning against her with a sob that he tried unsuccessfully to choke back. She held him tighter.

"You can cry you know," she whispered. "I don't care."

They sat there long into the night, until he had cried himself dry and empty.

* * *

French translation:

Bonsoir, Monsieur Dassin! Aujourd'hui était une belle jour, n'était pas? – Good evening, Monsieur Dassin! Today was a beautiful day, wasn't it?

**A/N –** Sorry for the long wait, you guys. This chapter took some work. It's also my longest chapter to date, coming in at 3,332 words. _Kotonok _is a phonetic spelling of a Russian endearment meaning "kitty" or "kitten" which I found online and thought was adorable. While on the topic of languages, if any of you guys speak French and notice errors in the French dialogue or translations, do let me know. I've been studying French for two years and can do a bit, but I am still far from fluent. Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Cheers!


	19. Chapter 19

Gleb awoke late the next morning to the sound of knocking. Before he could do more than mumble "come if I know you" the door opened to reveal Elena holding a tray.

"Oh, sorry! Did I wake you up?" she asked as she pushed the door closed with her foot.

Gleb started to reply, but whatever he was going to say was lost in a huge yawn. He rubbed his eyes and ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair.

"Maybe you did, but I don't mind," he said at last. "What have you got there?"

Elena smiled, but there was a shadow of worry in her eyes.

"I thought I'd make you breakfast in bed today," she said. "You haven't had the luxury in a few weeks, monsieur."

Gleb cocked an eyebrow and his lips twitched into a half smile.

"Monsieur?" he asked. "Vous êtes très officielle aujourd'hui, mademoiselle."

Elena laughed as she set down his tray on the bedside table.

"Quelquefois, j'oublie que tu peux parler en français!" she cried. "Mais tu as parlé en français quand tu as aidé avec les clients hier. Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas avec moi?"

"Peut-être tu oublies parce que je ne parle pas bien en français?" Gleb suggested.

Grinning, Elena sat down on the edge of his bed.

"Non, c'est parce que je suis vieille et oublieuse," she replied, making him laugh too.

"Première, tu es pas vieille _ou_ oublieuse. Second, so much French is making my brain hurt. What's for breakfast?"

Elena smiled, glad to see that he was in a tolerably good mood considering what had happened last night.

"Well there is bacon for a start, need I say anything else?" she asked teasingly.

Gleb shook his head, a grin breaking out over his face.

"Just give me the plate already!" he dove for the tray, causing the dishes to rattle together dangerously.

"Careful! You'll upset the coffee!" Elena cried, grabbing his hands and forcing him back. "Sit still you big naughty and I'll give you your breakfast."

Gleb pouted good-humoredly, but did as he was told.

He and Elena chatted while he ate, talking of nothing in particular: the weather, Gleb's foot, Jean's antics, and Marianne's latest breakfast time riddle. Gleb had proved very good with those riddles during the past two weeks and Marianne had been hard put to it to come up with any hard enough to foil him.

Gleb had just drained the last of his coffee with a comfortable sigh and set down the cup, when he noticed that Elena had fallen silent and was studying her clasped hands with feigned interest.

"What is it?" he asked.

She sighed, not meeting his eyes.

"I'm just thinking," she said evasively.

Gleb frowned and studied her face. He knew her well enough to see that something important was on her mind. He guessed that it probably involved what had happened the night before.

"If you're worried about me, don't be," he said at last. "I'll be alright, you know."

Elena looked up at that.

"Don't flatter yourself. It's just…" her voice lost its teasing tone and she shrugged uncomfortably, "what will you do now, after everything that's happened? Will you…stay?"

Gleb lay back and frowned at the wall. That exact thought had been pricking in the back of his mind last night as he lay, trying vainly to fall asleep. How could he stay here when it had become clear that _L'Auberge du Miroir_ no longer offered a safe haven? He had come so close, _so close_ to being discovered last night. If he had been recognized, he would almost undoubtedly be dead right now, or at the very least would be on his way back to Russia, a speedy trial, and an inevitable sentence. No cover story that he could come up with would have been good enough to convince those two of his innocence and if he _had _managed to dupe them into believing that he was innocent, it wouldn't have lasted long. But if he _did_ leave where would he go? The inn had become something of a second home for him now and the thought of leaving it and the Dassins, especially Mme. Dassin and Elena, caused his already aching heart to bleed. He felt like a little sapling that had put out roots, cautious and uncertain at first and then growing more and more sure, and now was completely uprooted once again. The sense of safety that he had finally found here was almost completely dashed, but at the same time, leaving this quiet little corner of France would mean leaving behind the only place he had _felt_ safe since he was a boy. He sighed and shook his head.

"I really don't know," he said slowly. "The logical part of my brain is telling me to go, that I've stayed in one place too long and that I'm not far enough away from Russia to be safe. The fact that _Le Miroir_ is an inn makes it worse, of course. _Anyone_ can come here as we've seen. But I'm…well I'm happy here and I don't _want_ to leave."

"Then _don't_!" He turned in surprise at Elena's abruptly spoken words and saw that she was leaning forward earnestly in her chair. "Gleb when was the last time you were happy before you came here? _Really_ happy?"

Gleb sighed and looked down at his lap.

"I don't know," he said. "I thought I was happy back in Leningrad, supporting a cause I believed in and leading the way to a better future as I saw it. I was the Deputy Commissioner and had good reason to hope for a future promotion to an even higher office. I had power and responsibility and respect, but I was lonely, Elena. I didn't realize how lonely I truly was until I met…Anya and then, well…" he sighed, "it all happened so fast, and now I'm here. I found a new home and I wasn't lonely anymore. I met you and your parents and siblings and they gave me the big family I never had. If I'm perfectly honest with myself, the thought of being cast adrift again is absolutely terrifying, like losing my home and family all over again. "

Elena sat silent, trying to gather her thoughts.

"You know, Gleb," she said at last, "that was only the second time that Russian people have ever come here as far as I know. The first time, it was just a young couple who were trying to get to America. _Le Miroir_ is safer than you might think. If you were to leave, you wouldn't have anyone that you could trust and the chances of you being recognized or caught would be much greater if you were traveling. Here at least we can hide you if anyone comes and I can help you come up with a cover story if you need one. Besides, Gleb, we need you! You're the best bartender this inn has seen in years and French isn't even your first language! Your Russian cocktails are house favorites! And…and we'd miss you. You are the best friend I've ever had."

Elena stood up and walked to the window, looking out as if she could find better arguments outside.

"We'd really miss you," she repeated after a moment. "Henri told me just the other day how nice it was to have an extra pair of hands. Papa is not as young as he used to be."

Gleb groaned softly, rubbing his temples.

"I know," he replied, "and like I said before, I love it here. I just…oh I don't know."

He slumped back against the wall dejectedly. Suddenly he straightened.

"Elena, can you bring my bag over?" he asked.

Elena went over to the desk and picked up Gleb's traveling bag which was now stored next to it. She brought it over to the bed. Gleb sat up and swung his legs over the edge, patting the spot beside him.

Elena sat down as he opened the bag and pushed aside the neatly folded shirt on top. She flinched a little. There inside lay the green-gray uniform that she remembered so well. Gleb took it out and ran his hand over the fabric thoughtfully, almost lovingly. Then he shook his head and put it down on the bed beside him. To Elena's eyes, the bag was now completely empty and she was just going to ask what he was doing, when he reached down and pushed on three different parts of the bag bottom at the same time. There was a noise like a latch opening and the outline of a small door appeared in the bottom. Elena gasped.

"Gleb Vaganov, do you mean to tell me that you have a _hidden compartment_ in your _travel bag_?"

Gleb glanced at her and gave a slightly smug smile.

"Well you know," he said shrugging nonchalantly, "I was incognito. Some of the things I have in this bag wouldn't…go over too well if they were found."

He reached down and pulled up the door. Elena's mouth dropped open. There lying in the concealed bottom of the bag was a small assortment of items, but the one that held her eye was the pistol. It was small and almost delicate-looking, but deadly for all that. Nearby lay a small box of bullets, Gleb's real passport, and what appeared to be an official written version of his assignment. Underneath everything lay an unaddressed envelope. Gleb pulled it out and opened it, taking out a letter.

"Read this," he said quietly. "I need your advice on something."

With hands that trembled a little, Elena unfolded the letter. Her eyes widened as she realized that this was a private communication to the Commissioner of Leningrad from his deputy. _Upon thorough examination of the case… by my authority as Deputy Commissioner of Leningrad, cleared the woman in question, Anya, of the charges of impersonation of royalty that where laid against her… It will be difficult or impossible for me to return in the near future… Respectfully, Deputy Commissioner of Leningrad Gleb Vaganov_. To Elena, reading the words that Gleb had written back in Paris, it seemed that she could see him in his uniform, standing at attention or walking along on a patrol, cold and lofty. She glanced over at Gleb, thinking how different that image was from the man she knew, and saw he was watching her anxiously.

She met his eyes and sighed.

"What is it that you need my advice on?" she asked.

"Should I send it? Do you think it would take them off my trail?"

Elena frowned and gazed back down at the letter, reading and re-reading the phrases written in Gleb's neat, proper script. She realized that this was the first time she had ever seen his handwriting.

"No," she said at last, slowly. "Don't send it. It will only confirm that you are still alive. As far as they know, you died in some accident or where discovered and thrown into prison. In the letter you say that you have 'cleared the woman in question, Anya, of the charges of impersonation of royalty that where laid against her.' That implies that you didn't kill her. What were your orders if she turned out to be innocent?"

Gleb sighed heavily.

"I was to bring her back to Russia so an example could be made of her," he said quietly. "Killing her would have probably been kinder, even if she had turned out to be innocent."

"Well you obviously did neither," Elena replied. "That phrase is particular is an obvious clue. It might set them on Anya's case too. No, I don't think you should send it."

Gleb nodded slowly.

"Very well," he said. "Then we should destroy it and the assignment. Probably my passport too."

Without another word, he reached down into the bag and pulled out the remaining documents, handing them to Elena.

"Put them in the stove when you go back to the kitchen," he said.

"What about that?" Elena pointed to the gun and ammunition in its obviously Russian box.

Gleb picked up the weapon with an easy familiarity, tipping it so the light ran up and down the barrel.

"I'll hide it," he said.

Picking up the ammunition box and his uniform, he pushed himself upright, grabbed his crutches, and hobbled over to the dresser. He had given up keeping everything in his bag for some time now. Opening one of the drawers, he took out a pair of socks. Into one of these he poured the bullets and knotted the top. He slipped the other over the gun and buried both the socks and his uniform in the back of the drawer under various items of underclothing. He closed the drawer and turned back to Elena with a slightly wry smile.

"I doubt anyone would go looking in there. They should be safe enough. You can burn this box along with the rest."

Elena laughed a little.

"Quite a challenge you've set for me," she said. "Trying to smuggle all that downstairs and slip it into the stove with no one noticing."

He shrugged.

"You managed to get _me_ downstairs without incident before I learned how to walk down with my crutches" he pointed out. "Those papers and things are smaller than me, not to mention quieter."

Elena grinned and acknowledged that it was probably true.

"I'll head down now and let you dress," she added. "You can come down afterwards if you want, the men left early this morning and I heard them talking about catching a train so they're probably far away by now."

Gleb frowned thoughtfully.

"I'll come down," he said, "but I'd like to stick to kitchen duty for a few days."

"I could probably arrange that," she hid Gleb's papers and the pasteboard bullet box under the napkin, picked up the tray and headed for the door.

"Wait a moment," at the sound of Gleb's voice, she turned back to face him.

"Yes?"

"I want to thank you. You have helped me more than you know. The contents of that compartment have been haunting me since I arrived. I've clung to them, I suppose; the last link I had to my past when I was trying to figure out who I had become. You have given me a new life here in France. I owe it all to you, Lena."

Elena smiled.

"It's been a joy," she replied.

She opened the door with one hand, balancing the tray in the other. She turned back before Gleb could close it again, raising an impudent eyebrow.

"Lena?" she queried.

Gleb shrugged, grinning a trifle bashfully.

"If I'm going to stay here, I might as well have a nickname for you."

"Well what can I call you then? Leb?"

Gleb laughed, grimacing.

"My name's too short to shorten any farther," he protested.

"What about…Glebko?"

"That sounds like some kind of exotic fruit!"

"Oh whatever! You can stay Gleb for now, but be warned! I _will_ come up with something!"

Gleb stuck out his tongue childishly and closed the door.

Elena stood for a moment in the corridor, still grinning to herself. She felt light as a feather with relief. Gleb was staying! He had finally chosen to leave the past in the past and move on with his new life, a life he claimed she had given him.

**xxxx**

That evening as she lay in bed, Elena though once more of their conversation that morning. She had managed to burn all the papers without incident and Gleb had been decidedly cheerful, whistling or humming as he worked although he had steered well away from the dining room and bar. Elena sighed. She suddenly realized that Gleb had brought a bright spot into their lives; into _her _life and they had almost lost him. She shivered involuntarily, imagining the inn without Gleb: their cheerful morning banters, the expression on his face when she got his coffee just right, the help and company, he provided. When she had called Gleb the best friend she ever had, she had meant it.

Elena sat up in the dark hugging her knees. Only now did she see how important it was to her, how important _he_ was to her. Gleb Vaganov, Bolshevik officer, assassin, coffee connoisseur, prankster, jokester, chess and card opponent, bartender, kitchen boy, caring friend. All these things made up the man she had grown to know so well and to care about so much.

For most of Elena's life, she had secretly harbored a deep regard for one Gérard Monet when they were both been students at the local school. To Elena, he had always been the dashing older boy: far away, out of her reach, _and_ very much taken. Artistic from young age, Gérard had become a painter and two years ago, had married his sweetheart Lise and moved to Paris in search of work opportunities, leaving a brokenhearted Elena behind. Now, sitting alone in the darkness, she realized that Gleb filled her heart in a way that Gérard never had.

She lay down again hurriedly. This was _not_ acceptable! Gleb still cared deeply for Anya. Elena had seen how much it hurt him when she left. It would take him quite a while to get over something like that and even then there was no reason to suppose that he would ever see her as more than a friend.

"_You have given me a new life here in France. I owe it all to you, Lena." _She could still hear his deep voice speaking the words, his handsome face wearing the earnest expression that it always did when he was being serious. Elena groaned and rolled over.

"You have no business making my heart act like this, Gleb Vaganov," she muttered to the ceiling.

* * *

Two chapters in less than a month? WHAT IS HAPPENING!

French Translation:

~ Vous êtes très officielle aujourd'hui, mademoiselle - You are very formal/official today, miss.

~ Quelquefois, j'oublie que tu peux parler en français mais tu as parlé en français quand tu as aidé avec les clients hier. Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas avec moi? -Sometimes, I forget that you can speak French! But you spoke French yesterday when you were helping with the customers. What's wrong with me?

~ Peut-être tu oublies parce que je ne parle pas bien en français? - Maybe you forget because I don't speak French very well?

~ Non, c'est parce que je suis vieille et oublieuse. - No, it's because I am old and forgetful.

~ Première, tu es ni vieille ni oublieuse. - First, you are neither old nor forgetful.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: **We've made it to Chapter 20, y'all! From the depths of my heart, I want to thank all of you for your likes, support, and kind comments both here and on Archive of Our Own. Little did I know when I started back in July of 2019 that this story and this community would become such a big part of my life. It's been an incredibly fun and fulfilling experience. I love you all! THANK YOU! Cheers!

* * *

_Three weeks later:_

"There, I am finished!" Dr. Dubois straightened up and rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. "You may try it now."

Gleb stared down at the ankle that had been hidden by the cast for so long. It looked white and thin. Fragile almost. Gingerly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and put it down on the floor. He stood, putting some tentative weight on his foot and then gave a grunt of surprise as his leg promptly collapsed beneath him. He grabbed the bedpost to steady himself and winced. Dr. Dubois chuckled at his bewildered expression.

"My boy, you haven't put weight on that on that foot in weeks. It will be weak and sore for a some time. It's called muscular atrophy."

Gleb raised an eyebrow.

"So I'm as crippled as ever then?" he said, his voice heavy with disappointment and disgust.

"No indeed, monsieur," the doctor replied kindly. "You _can_ walk now. It will just take your body some time to get used to having the cast off."

Gleb looked over at Elena, still frowning. She shrugged.

"Maybe if you keep using your crutches for a bit, it will be easier," she suggested. "Should he wear shoes or not, Docteur?"

Doctor Dubois thought for a moment.

"I would suggest that you wrap your foot in a linen bandage for a few days, just to provide some extra support. Other than that, go barefoot for a week or so."

The doctor deftly wrapped Gleb's ankle with a bandage that he procured from his bag, then stood up, gathered his instruments, and prepared to leave. At the door, he turned back.

"You should be washing that foot twice a day with warm water and some gentle soap. No hard scrubbing. Good day, monsieur! À bientôt, Elena my dear."

As soon as the door closed behind the doctor, Gleb sighed. He flexed his ankle experimentally, grimacing a little at the stiffness, and couldn't help a slightly giddy smile from breaking out over his face.

"It _is_ nice to move it again!" he declared.

Elena walked over and stood by the bed, smiling.

"Just be careful with yourself. Don't _overdo_ it."

"Right, because I'm not know for that or anything."

"Says the man who climbed down a wall and knocked out two burglars while walking on a _very much still broken_ foot."

They both laughed and Gleb shrugged, fingering the spot on his shoulder that was marked by a small scar.

"You neglected to add I was _shot_."

Elena rolled her eyes.

"Yes, you narcissistic baby, you were _shot_."

"I'll have you know that that scratch stung a lot after the adrenaline had gone down enough for me to feel it!"

Elena simply handed him his crutches and suggested that they head downstairs as the doctor's visit had put both of them behind schedule. As they walked to the stairs, Gleb tried to put a little weight on his foot. It got easier the more he used it, but the pressure and movement was still uncomfortable.

It was almost eleven in the morning and the kitchen was bustling with preparations for the noon meal. As Gleb and Elena came down the stairs, Mme. Dassin was at the stove, stirring something in a huge iron kettle. Marianne and little Vera stood next to one of the prep-tables chopping what appeared to be a mountain of multicolored carrots into neat, even chunks. Vincent was helping Jean, who was bringing in more firewood. Elena hurried over to the bread table and began readying some loaves to go in the oven and Gleb thumped his was way over to the corner where a stool was set up by one of the tables. He sat down and stretched his foot again before setting to work on his own mountain of vegetables.

"So what did the doctor say? How's the foot healing?" Mme. Dassin asked.

Gleb smiled at her maternal tone.

"He liked what he saw," he replied. "He took the cast off, but said I should keep it wrapped for a while. I'm just glad to get that…" Elena gave him a sharp look, "…that… cast off."

"I imagine so," Mme. Dassin chuckled to herself. "Henri broke his arm when he was twelve. He climbed up into a tall tree and then jumped down so he could test out his homemade sheet glider." She shook her head, "He just about went crazy with his arm plastered up. It was his right arm too."

Gleb grinned.

"Did he ever try to remove it himself?" he asked curiously.

"Boys will be boys," was the response, followed by a sigh and a quiet chuckle from Gleb's corner.

They had been working together for several minutes when the relative silence was broken by a large bang from above.

"Qu'était-ce que ça?" Elena exclaimed, jumping in surprise.

"Henri et Papa. They're up on the roof, looking at that leaky spot."

Mme. Dassin had hardly finished speaking when there came a terrific _CRASH!_ followed by a yell, a horrified shriek of "_Papa!_", and then an ominously heavy thud.

Everyone in the kitchen dropped what they were doing and ran outside. Gleb limped a little behind, not stopping for his crutches. When they reached the garden there was a concerted gasp of horror and fear and Elena darted forward, echoing her brother's cry, her mother not far behind. Gleb took one look at the scene before him and his heart dropped into the soles of his feet.

There on the ground, amid the remains of several ruined herb bushes, lay M. Dassin. Not far away stood the ladder to the roof which Henri was now descending in reckless haste. Gleb hurried forward to join the others who were now clustered around the man, trying desperately to revive him. He hesitated.

"Please," he said, "let me look at him. I was in the military for many years and learned some emergency first-aid."

He knelt down, went to feel for the jugular pulse, and froze. Gleb close his eyes, as if he could deny the truth by not seeing it. Forcing them open, he checked for a pulse in three other places. Finally, he reached up and, repressing a shudder, felt along the man's neck. He sat back abruptly, unable to meet any of their anxious eyes. Gleb had been a soldier long enough to know what he was dealing with. For a moment, he was back in the horror of battle, dragging a comrade's limp body over his shoulders as they retreated or staring in mute horror at the remains of a blasted tank, the acrid, reek-filled air burning his lungs. He swallowed thickly, choking down the nausea that rose up in his throat and slowly shook his head.

"There's nothing we can do for him," he said at last, his voice low and rough, "he…it was instantaneous."

There were cries of horror and grief from the others. Mme. Dassin gave a moan and sagged against Elena who was staring at her father with wide, tear-filled tears. Henri dropped to his knees, putting his arms around them, Jean not far behind. Elena gathered in Vera with her other arm and Vincent sank against his mother's lap. Gleb sat motionless a little ways away, knowing that he didn't belong in this moment of intimate grief, but unable to leave; still fighting off the old horrors and memories that came crowding in on him no matter how much he tried to stop them.

At last, he got shakily to his feet.

"I'll go for the doctor," he said.

Once Gleb was inside, the sight of the soup and un-chopped vegetables snapped him back to reality. He pulled the pot off the stove, then hurried upstairs. Grabbing his shoes and a coat out of his wardrobe, he ran back down again and sat down in one of the kitchen chairs. He came up short when he saw his wrapped foot, realizing that it was now aching dully. After a short moment of debate, he pulled off the wrapping and stuck his foot into the shoe. He cursed quietly at the discomfort, but laced it tightly, hoping that it would provide some support. He then tied the other one, pulled on his coat, and grabbed a hat that belonged to Henri off the hook by the door. Only when he reached the street, did he realize that he had absolutely no idea where to go.

**xxxx**

The gently colored light that came though the stained glass windows gave an almost dreamlike quality to the interior of the small church. It was packed full of people. Everyone in the village and even a few from farther off had come to show their respect for the innkeeper of _Le Miroir_. Every person had been touched by him in some way, big or small. M. Dassin had been much beloved and they would miss him sorely: his big voice, jolly laugh, and excellent advice.

Gleb sat in the Dassin's pew, feeling a strange sense of déjà-vu as the service played out before him. The last time he had been in a church was many years ago, when he was still young enough to cling to his mother's hand. Ekaterina Vaganova had been a staunch woman of faith, even when her Roman Catholicism had been frowned upon by others in Yekaterinburg. Mikhail too had been Catholic though he was not a devout one until shortly before his death. His inattention to religion had rubbed off on his son and Gleb's time in the army had not helped. He had not prayed in many years, but sitting there in the rose-colored light of the stained glass, he did pray, asking for help and strength for this family for whom he had come to care so much. Gleb knew that the Dassins went to church each Sunday and resolved to accompany them now that he could walk reasonably well without his crutches. In truth, though he had been too busy to give much thought to his foot, it was sore and ached dully from all the strain.

Elena was next to him in the pew and as the priest began the funeral mass, Gleb could see the knuckles of her clasped hands go white as she strove to keep her composure and support her mother and siblings. Remembering how she had comforted him on the balcony, Gleb reached over and laid one of his hands over her clasped ones. Elena didn't turn her head, but she slipped her hand into his and held it tightly the rest of the service, drawing courage from the touch. If anyone saw, no one remarked on it or at least didn't remark aloud. A few people did look thoughtfully in their direction, but said nothing.

Gleb had been introduced to many of the people the night before at the wake that was held at the inn. He prided himself on being someone who could remember people, but the sheer volume of new faces had completely overwhelmed him. The fact that he had only gotten three hours of sleep the night before had not helped. Having dealt with the death of both his parents, Gleb had some experience when it came to the sorting out of the affairs of a deceased person and was able to assist Mme. Dassin and Henri as they tried to work though the papers and arrangements. Poor Elena, Jean, and the two little ones had been forced to run everything by themselves, though Gleb had tried to help them whenever he could. They had "closed" the inn, meaning they were taking in no new customers and the public dining room and bar where not open. They couldn't turn away the guests who were currently staying, of course, so there was still extra laundry, cleaning, and cooking to be done. Gleb had been honestly impressed at Elena's composure both in running the essentials of the inn and in dealing with people who were unsatisfied with this turn of events. She was always perfectly kind and polite to the latter, but completely uncompromising for all that. Gleb was proud of her and when, towards the middle of the Mass, his hand had gone numb from her clutching it too tightly, he decided that the discomfort was well worth giving this amazing girl the extra strength to carry on.

**xxxx**

Late that night, after several solitary hours of bending over accounts and ledgers in M. Dassin's office, Gleb blew out the lamp he had been working by and wandered out into the kitchen for a glass of water and a midnight snack before heading upstairs. As he walked through the door, he heard a sound that brought him up short.

Looking over, he saw Elena was crouching on the ground beside the stove. She was wearing her nightgown, sobbing with her face hidden in her drawn up knees.

Gleb's heart twisted. He knew well the pain of losing a parent. The loss hurt with an all-consuming ache, like knives stabbing relentlessly into the heart. Nothing could ever make you wholly complete again, no matter what happened.

He hesitated, not wanting to disturb her if she wished to be left alone, but wanting desperately to comfort her. He shifted a fraction and the board beneath him squeaked loudly. Gleb cursed under his breath, annoyance causing him to fall back into his long habit. Elena started at the sound, jumping up and turning towards him. He gasped quietly. The maturity and strength with which she had acted the past two days was gone, the calm front completely dissolved. This was Elena, the girl who had just lost her father and was finally allowing herself to drop her guard, overwhelmed with grief. She stood for a moment, and then ran to him, throwing her arms around him and burying her face in his chest, sobbing against him. He hugged her tightly, giving that comfort and support that he had so desperately longed for after his own parents' deaths and never received. He could feel tears prick his own eyes, but he didn't care. Elena needed him right now and that was all that mattered.

They stood there in the kitchen for a long time, Gleb rocking her in a gentle, unconscious rhythm. At last, she stopped crying, but she didn't move for a while, taking comfort in his strong arms and warm embrace. Almost Gleb thought her to be asleep on her feet, but finally she sighed deeply and stepped back, wiping her face. Gleb leaned against a nearby counter. His ankle was aching and he couldn't quite hide the slight groan as he stretched it. Elena looked at him sharply.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Fine, fine, just stiff mostly," he assured her. "Don't worry; you've always taken such good care of me. Let me help _you_ for once."

Elena sniffed and the corner of her mouth twitched in a halfhearted attempt to smile.

"You already have, so much. Oh, Gleb, I don't know what I'd do without you!"

Her voice broke again. Gleb put his arm around her and she sagged tiredly against him. He looked at the clock. It was nearly one in the morning.

"It's time you were in bed," he said gently. "Come on, I'll walk you to your room."

Elena simply nodded. It was tight going, walking side by side in the narrow staircase, but Gleb sensed that she needed his support both mentally and physically. He didn't take his arm from her shoulders until they reached her room and she was safely deposited her on the bed. She sat there tiredly, her face still flushed from her crying.

"Thank you, Gleb. I…I know it's safe to drop my guard around you. Mother needs me to be strong."

Gleb nodded.

"I'm always here if you need me, but don't feel like you can't share your grief with the others. It isn't healthy to bottle everything up inside, and a family needs to be open with each other. It's not fair for you to have to suffer alone. Trust me, I've been through this."

Elena nodded heavily, looking at her hands clasped in her lap.

"I know. But oh, Gleb, I'm so scared. Everything has changed so fast! The past two days are a blur; like a nightmare only real."

She shuddered, hugging herself.

Gleb limped over and sat next to her on the bed, his arm once again encircling her shoulders.

"I know, but I'm here for you: we all are."

She leaned her head on his shoulder. They sat in silence for a moment and then Gleb began to sing softly. It was an old Russian lullaby that his mother used to sing him when he would awaken with a nightmare back in Yekaterinburg. It talked about a soldier and always made Gleb think of his father.

_The time will come when you will learn_

_The soldier's way of life,_

_Boldly you'll place your foot into the stirrup_

_And take the gun._

_The saddle-cloth for your battle horse_

_I will sew for you from silk._

_Sleep now, my dear little child,_

_Bayushki bayu._

He could almost hear his mother's soft voice, and feel her hand on his head, smoothing away fear and uncertainty.

_On the road, I'll give you_

_A small holy icon,  
_

_And when you pray to God, you'll  
_

_Put it right in front of you,_

_While preparing for the dangerous battle_

_Please remember your mother.  
_

_Sleep, good boy, my beautiful,  
_

_Bayushki bayu._

He let the last words die away into a murmur and sat, wrapped in his thoughts until a soft snore roused him. Looking down, he saw that Elena had actually fallen asleep, still leaning against his shoulder. Very softly, so as not to wake her, he laid her down and stood up. Taking the quilt from the end of the bed, he covered her warmly and slipped out of the room.

Only when he was in his own bed did Gleb realize that if Henri ever learned of what he had just done, there would probably be another funeral. He shrugged to himself. He was tired and not thinking straight. At the time, had been solely focused on comforting Elena; she had needed help and he had done his best. Whispering a quiet prayer for a girl and her family, Gleb fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, notwithstanding his aching foot.

* * *

The Russian lullaby came from the website _Mama Lisa's World_. The song is called _Bayushki Bayu _which is the Russian equivalent to something like _hushabye_.

Sorry that this chapter is so sad. Better things are coming.

French Translation:

À bientôt - See you soon

Qu'était-ce que ça? - What was that?


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Hey ya'll! Long time no see. At this point there isn't much I can say aside from the fact that I'm pretty sure all my characters went on vacation to the Caribbean with my muse (who I've decided is named Delilah) and Gleb discovered Rum Jumbies because they have all been VERY uncooperative lately. Hope you enjoyed. Cheers!**

* * *

A cool breeze fluttered the leaves as Gleb and the rest of the Dassins left the inn. Ten days had passed since M. Dassin's accident and life was settling down into something of a rhythm again. It was Saturday, and the whole family was on their way to the local market where they usually purchased things that they could not easily grow or make themselves. _L'Auberge du Miroir_ would be opening again on Monday.

As they left the walk and started down the road, Henri stepped up to his mother's side and offered her his arm. She hesitated a moment then took it with a sad smile.

"Merci, Henri. Tu es un bon fils," she told him gently.

Gleb noticed that Jean had done the same to Elena and even little Vincent had given his arm to Vera. Marianne was the only one left without an escort, so he quickly offered his arm to her. Maybe it was some kind family tradition for the boys to escort the girls when the family went walking?

Marianne, however, cocked an eye at the arm Gleb had offered then turned and called to her mother.

"Mama, why doesn't Jean walk with me so Elena can go with Gleb? He's her _especial_ friend you know."

Mme. Dassin and Henri turned back and everyone looked at Elena who was blushing despite her best efforts. There was a pause.

"Why, Marianne! If I didn't know better, I'd say that you didn't like him!" she managed at last. "You know it's rude to refuse someone who offers you his arm! And Gleb is a friend to _all_ of us, not just me!"

Jean looked thoughtfully at his flustered sister then at Marianne and caught a naughty twinkle in her eyes.

"Oh I'm sure that's not what Mar meant!" he cut in hurriedly. "Besides there_ is_ something I want to talk to her about and it's much easier to talk to someone who is next to you."

Dropping Elena's arm, Jean went to Marianne and took hers, ignoring his older sister's indignant protests. They shared a Look and then hurried off, giggling, at a pace that could hardly be called dignified.

Mme. Dassin merely sighed and set out after them with Vincent and Vera skipping along close behind. Gleb and Elena stood for a moment looking after the rest of the family, then Gleb offered her his arm. She rolled her eyes, flushing again, but took it and they walked slowly after the others.

"Is this some kind of family tradition?" Gleb after they had been walking in silence for several minutes.

Elena nodded.

"Something like that," she replied. "Papa would always walk arm-in-arm with Mama and Henri started doing it for me for fun when we were little. As our family grew, the tradition continued."

She sighed.

Gleb smiled.

"You have such a wonderful family, Lena," he said. "Of course it was just me growing up, but Father would always walk like this with Mum whenever we went somewhere. I think he was something of a romantic at heart."

Elena smiled up at him.

"You seem to have gotten that trait, Glebushka."

Gleb looked down at her with a face so comically distressed that she started laughing.

"Glebushka?" he asked.

"What? I _warned _you you'd get a nickname! Didn't you ever have a nickname growing up?"

Gleb sighed.

"Yes. My mother used to call me _zaichik_ because I would hop around when I got excited." He sighed, looking down at Elena with a thoughtful half-smile, thinking of his mother's sweet face

"I still miss her," he added after a moment and Elena squeezed his arm gently.

They were now walking through the main part of the village. Shops lined the street, which was bustling with people going about their Saturday shopping. Flowers and leaves were everywhere and the sweet scent of growing things mixed pleasantly with the smell of fresh bread and pastries on the gentle breeze.

By this time, the Dassin family had broken up. Mme. Dassin was holding Vera and Vincent each by the hand as she looked through a fruit vendor's inventory. Henri was bargaining at a meat stand and Marianne and Jean were disappearing off on some other errand, bickering good-naturedly about something.

With no fixed purpose, Gleb and Elena wandered easily through the stands. After a while, Elena stopped to buy some yarn and Gleb stood nearby, looking around curiously at the various shops and stands around them. Elena finished her purchase and turned back to him with a quip about teaching him to knit that died on her tongue as she saw his face. He was staring with intense concentration into the window of a nearby pawnshop, looking as though he had seen a ghost.

"Gleb? Gleb! What on earth is wrong?"

He looked down at her as if out of a daze and noticed her anxious expression.

"Nothing's wrong. I…I just need to check something…" his voice faded off and he moved purposefully towards the pawnshop. Several people got in Elena's way as she tried to follow, so by the time that she made it to the shop, Gleb was already inside talking to the broker.

"Oui, oui, oui! Celle-là!" Gleb's French accent had improved greatly from when he first arrived at _Le Miroir_, but right now, Elena thought as she walked up beside him, the Russian was coming though much more strongly than usual. She had noticed that this seemed to happen when he was upset.

"What is all this about?" she asked quietly, but at that moment the pawnbroker came back.

"Voila, monsieur! Here it is, ah good day mademoiselle, and how may Pierre LaFrance help you today?" he said in sweeping and slightly fastidious French.

"Oh, I'm with him," she replied, glancing up rather anxiously at Gleb.

A slight twinkle came into the pawnbroker's eyes.

"Doing some shopping together, eh? I see."

The stress he laid on the word _shopping_ caused Elena's eyebrows to draw together slightly. Just _what_ was this man implying? All of her doubts were drowned in embarrassment, however, as she realized what he was holding. It was a small gold ring, obviously designed for a woman's hand. Simple and elegant, the only ornamentation was a small, deep red garnet with a diamond of equal size on either side, all three set in a recess in the ring itself.

"May I hold it?"

"Why yes, monsieur; if you would like."

Gleb took the small ring from the M. LaFrance, turning it over in his hands. Elena was surprised to see that they were trembling.

"Where did you get this?"

"Oh, from a German couple. They were passing through and needed a little extra money for some tickets I think. The ring itself is of Russian make, however. It appears to be some sort of wedding band and the inscription and initials inside are in Russian which I do not speak myself, of course."

"How much?"

Elena stared at Gleb in shock. His voice was tight with emotion that he was obviously struggling to hide and there were tears in his eyes.

"Hm, how much? It is a rather handsome thing. I'm thinking seven hundred and fifty francs at least; perhaps more."

Elena could see the hope fade out of Gleb's eyes and she felt annoyed. There was no possible way that ring was worth so much.

"Seven hundred and fifty francs? For that little thing?" she cried indignantly. "Why it can't be worth more than ten if you ask me."

"Ten francs? My dear young lady, this is pure gold and those are _real_ gems! One of those diamonds alone would cost more than that! I can't possibly part with it for so little!"

"Elena, what are you doing?" Gleb muttered in Russian into her ear.

But now the shrewd bargaining part of Elena that she had inherited from her father was thoroughly awoken. She laid a hand on his arm.

"Just trust me," she replied.

For the next fifteen minutes, the haggling went back and forth as Gleb looked on anxiously and tried to decipher what exactly as being said. The French number system had always been a profound mystery to him and both Elena and M. LaFrance were speaking so quickly that he was completely bewildered.

In the end, Elena won and they got the ring for a decent (although still high) price. Only when they had decided on the final amount did Elena realize that she hadn't the faintest idea of how they were going to pay for it.

"Did you bring any money?" she asked Gleb in an undertone. To her great relief, he produced an old leather wallet, from which he produced the necessary bills and coins. M. LaFrance produced a jewelry box, put the ring into it, and gave it to Gleb who took it almost reverently.

"A fine day to you!" he called as they left. "And congratulations!"

"Merci, monsieur. To you as well." Gleb replied affably. Elena rubbed her forehead with one hand, flushing. Was the whole world intent on embarrassing her today?

"What's wrong?" he asked as they left the shop and headed out into the crowded street again.

"What's wrong? Didn't you hear what he said?"

"Yes, he congratulated me on my purchase. A little strange perhaps, but I confess I didn't think much of it."

Elena smacked her forehead with an exasperated groan.

"Gleb Vaganov, isn't that a little dense? You're buying a ring while in the company of a young lady and all…"

Gleb looked at her blankly.

"He thought we were engaged; that the ring was for _me_!"

Gleb's face went from confused to slightly amused mortification.

"Ooooooh."

"Yes! What possessed you to buy it anyway? I mean, it's pretty of course, but isn't it rather odd for a man to just randomly buy a _woman's_ wedding band?"

Gleb did not reply at once and when Elena looked up at him, she saw that he was wearing a slightly wistful smile.

"It was my mother's," he said at last, so quietly that Elena had to strain to hear him above the hubbub of the marketplace.

"What!" she dropped the arm she had taken again when they left the pawnshop and turned to face him fully. "Your _mother's?_"

Someone bumped into them and Gleb stumbled slightly on his still-weak ankle.

"Is there somewhere a little less loud where we can talk?" he asked.

"Absolutely! That foot of yours could probably use a rest anyway. Follow me."

Taking his arm again, Elena steered them away from the push and bustle of the main market. After a few turns, they came to a little side street that led to a path. It wandered down along the waterfront of the small river that ran near the edge of the town. A few people were scattered here and there, but for the most part, the area was empty. Both Gleb and Elena sighed with relief over the comparative quiet.

"So that ring was your mother's?"

Gleb sighed, biting the edge of his lip.

"Yes. It was her wedding ring." he replied quietly.

"Her _wedding ring_? But how on earth did it get here then? M. LaFrance said that he got it from a German couple. Was it stolen?"

Gleb frowned, sitting down on one of the benches that were scattered about. Elena sat beside him.

"After my mother's death, we had to sell everything of value to pay the doctor's bills and there were still several debts from my father's last illness that needed to be taken care of as well. That is a large part of why I joined the army. Military wages aren't exactly stellar, but it sure beats nothing at all. Plus they feed and clothe you."

Elena felt tears prick her eyes.

"How old where you?" she asked.

Gleb shrugged.

"Oh about sixteen. I lied about my age to get in and have been in the military ever since." He paused. "Or rather I was until this spring."

"Oh Gleb," she whispered, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "I'm so sorry."

Gleb smiled, patting the hand. They sat in silence for a moment.

"So, how did you know that the ring was your mother's." Elena asked, forcing some lightness into her tone.

"I recognized it when I saw it in the window of the shop and the engravings confirmed it."

Opening the box, Gleb took out the ring and held it up.

"Look at the initials: EIP and MBV. My mother's name before she was married was Ekaterina Ivanovna Petrovna and my father's name was Mikhail Borisovich Vaganov. This date here, July 9, 1903, was their wedding date, and this inscription, _lyubit' navsegda_, was on the inside of both my parents' rings. Like I said, my father was something of a romantic. There are just too many matches for it to be a coincidence. Now I finally have something of her with me." he added softly.

Elena smiled.

"May I see?"

Gleb handed the ring to her and she took it gently, turning it so she could read the engravings inside.

"It's so beautiful. Your father certainly had a taste for jewelry."

Gleb laughed softly.

"Yes he did. He was always getting Mum little things. Not usually very expensive ones of course, but she loved them. Flowers, fruit, her favorite candy. I think she's the one who gave me my sweet tooth."

"Says the man who likes his coffee black as night!"

They both laughed, then sat in companionable silence, looking at the lowering sun shining on the river. Elena leaned against him and he let his arm rest on the back of the bench behind her.

In the distance the clock chimed, snapping them both out of their respective reveries. Elena sat upright, flushing guiltily.

"Mama is probably going crazy looking for us!" she cried. "We have to go back."

"Great stars, you're right!" Gleb stood up, flexing his foot and offering her his arm again with an exaggerated gesture of gallantry that set her laughing. Together they made their way back towards the main market place where the rest of the Dassin family was anxiously awaiting them.

* * *

Translations:  
Merci, Henri. Tu es un bon fils. – Thank you, Henri. You are a good son.  
Zaichik – transliteration of the Russian word for "bunny"  
Oui, oui, oui! Celle-là! – Yes, yes, yes! That one!  
lyubit' navsegda - transliteration of the Russian words meaning "love forever"


	22. Chapter 22

**Hello! Oh. My. Word. I am so sorry you guys. I had no idea when I last posted that it would take so long for me to get another update out. For some reason, I've just haven't been in the right headspace for writing this story. Thankfully, over the Fourth, I went on vacation with my family to Maine and there is something about the house we stay in up there that just sparks my creativity. (On a side note, Chapter 5 was also written there.) Soooo. Enough excuses. In recompense, I will be posting Chapter 23 tomorrow, so stay tuned! As a side note, shout out to my sister who was so kind as to proofread these two chapters. She has helped on so many of the other chapters and been invaluable when it comes to plot discussion and ideas from day one. She also gave this story it's name. Thank you, H! Cheers, y'all!**

* * *

For the Dassin family (and Gleb) Monday began before the sun rose. Mme. Dassin and Elena were the first up, grabbing a quick breakfast then getting the bread ready to go into the ovens. Henri, Jean, and Gleb all came into the kitchen next. They too snatched small, mobile breakfasts and got to work. Henri and Jean headed outside to take care of the chores that needed doing and to carry in more wood. Gleb settled in his corner and started to chop root vegetables for the lunch soup. By the time Marianne stumbled in, still tying her apron, the kitchen was already steamy and hot. Mme. Dassin had set the two littlest of her children to polishing pewterware, but kept Marianne on call as a sort of errand girl. She popped in and out of the kitchen on various missions, stealing food of each trip through until Gleb complained that he would never get anywhere since she was eating his carrots as fast as he was chopping them.

The food alone took several hours to prepare. There were cuts of meat that needed to be marinated, bread and pastries to be made, the dining room needed its final once-over, all the rooms needed to be checked and the inevitably forgotten items added, and a hundred and one other things. As soon as the customers started coming, Gleb quitted the kitchen for the bar and some light waiting while Marianne and Elena helped.

The day passed in a whirlwind. Poor Henri was struggling to fill his father's shoes r and marveled at how easy M. Dassin had made running the inn to look. It made him tremble with a sense of his own inadequacy and he missed his father's reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Several new guests arrived and had to be put up _and_ there was a full dining room and bar that evening. People had missed _Le Miroir_ and were more than happy to show their appreciation for its reopening. In fact, some were a little too appreciative. Over the course of the evening, Gleb had to cut several people off and step in to deescalate a situation that probably would have resulted in a highly destructive bar fight.

"I haven't had to use my Intimidating Officer Voice in a long time," Gleb whispered in Elena's ear when he went into the kitchen for some fresh towels after an intoxicated patron spilled his entire drink on the bar and Gleb. He may or may not have directed several uncomplimentary Russian phrases in the man's general direction as he went to mop up both the spill and himself. Elena grimaced, looking around to make sure no one was nearby.

"When was the last time?" she queried in an undertone.

Gleb thought back and frowned.

"Paris, as far as I can remember."

It came out a little heavier than he had intended. Elena's shoulders dropped in a sympathetic sigh. She squeezed his arm gently.

"That's quite a while. You know you've been here for almost four months."

Gleb shook his head in disbelief

"Has it really been that long? It seems like a month, maybe two at most." He paused and gave a mischievous grin. "But 'le temps passe vite quand on s'amuse', I guess."

Elena laughed.

"My, my, my! Very fancy! Seriously, Gleb, your French has improved so much. When I first met you I could barely understand what you were saying."

Gleb frowned good-naturedly and was about to give a snarky reply when Marianne shouted "Coming through!" and dived between them with a loaded tray, reminding them of the work still to be done. Elena went to stir one of the soups and Gleb headed back to the bar, conscious of still being very damp. He scowled. That man was most definitely on the cut-off list now.

**xxxx**

After their late dinner that night, Mme. Dassin called Gleb into the vacated kitchen.

"I want to thank you for all that you've done, Gleb," she began. "Your help over the past weeks has been invaluable. If you are planning to stay as Elena tells me you are, I would like to pay you for your work here."

Gleb shook his head in disbelief.

"Pay me? Mme. Dassin, I'm just starting to work off my stay! I've lived at the inn for months completely free of charge not to mention my medical bills that you insisted on shouldering as well. I can't accept pay, I really can't."

"Gleb, my dear, you are one of the best bartenders I have ever seen! You have given the fame of our inn a serious boost and…and with all the legal help you have given me these past few days, I think it's fair to say that our score is settled."

Something pricked in Gleb's heart at the motherly words.

"But I _wanted_ to help!"

"And I _want_ to pay you!"

Gleb sighed. Walking over to the older woman, he took her hands in his.

"Madame, I know you want to help me, but I also know that finances are going to be…well, a bit strained for a while yet. Please, let me help as a friend for a while longer. You're already paying my bed and board."

Mme. Dassin sighed.

"Are you sure?"

Gleb nodded and gently pressed the hands he held.

"Perfectly so. I have not been this happy in years. I've done some things I'm not… proud of in the past, but this place and your family gave me a refuge and a new life."

Feeling suddenly bold, Gleb leaned down and kissed her lightly on the cheek then drew back quickly, embarrassed at his own audacity. Mme. Dassin merely smiled and reached up to pat his face with her hand, a gesture that made his heart ache.

"My dear boy, it's been a blessing to have you. Whatever your background is, always remember that your past doesn't have to define you. You can move on and become a new person. If you ask me," she smiled and patted his cheek, "you're already doing a pretty good job of it."

Something in her face brought a lump to his throat. It was so familiar, that look only a mother can give…

_"Gleb…"_

_ "Mum," his voice, already breaking as it deepened, cracked with emotion. "Mum, please, don't go."_

_ She smiled despite the tears in her eyes._

_ "Death is not something to be feared, Gleb dearest. I am at peace with God and man."_

_ Gleb held her hand tightly as if he could keep ahold of the slender thread that still bound her to the world. _

_ "Mum…" he could say no more. Ekaterina Vaganova reached up and held his tear-streaked face between her tiny, hands. _

_ "I'll never be far, detka."_

_ She coughed and suddenly her eyes became almost desperate. _

_ "Gleb, listen to me. Promise that you won't fall into the trap your father did. He died from shame and regret as much as illness. Please, never do something like that: so bound up in a cause that you do something that will destroy you. Please, promise me."_

_ "I promise, Mum, I promise."_

_ She relaxed back, relief painted across her features. He grasped her hand with the desperation of bitter grief._

_ "Thank you, Gleb. I love you, my little Zaichik…"_

_ "I love you, Mum," he choked out._

_ The fingers in his own went limp. Gleb tried to speak, tried to say something, but nothing came. He touched her face with trembling fingers, then dropped his head into her lap and sobbed, his hopeless tears falling on their still clasped hands. Everything he thought was his had been ripped from his hands, leaving behind the emptiness of despair. He was alone in the world._

Gleb took in a shuddering breath, dragging himself out of the memories. Mme. Dassin was looking up at him with a concerned expression that reminded him sharply of Elena. Without a word, she guided him to one of the kitchen chairs and sat down across from him. With gentle hands she reached out and brushed away the tears that had fallen without his realizing it. She didn't say anything; was simply there for him.

"I'm sorry," he said at last, voice still broken. "I've not had anything since I was sixteen. My father and mother both died within a few months of each other and on her death bed, I promised her…" Gleb shook his head dejectedly and looked at his lap. "I made a promise that I didn't keep. She would be so disappointed in me."

Mme, Dassin smiled despite the tears pricking her eyes.

"Whatever happened, Gleb, you are a man any mother would be proud of. If you don't feel like you kept the promise you made, it's not too late. It's never too late."

Gleb looked up at her.

"I don't think you'd say that if you knew," he said. "You'd probably pack my bags."

"Oh, Gleb…" Mme. Dassin shook her head, cut to the heart by his insecurity. "Whatever happened in the past, whatever you did or didn't do, you moved beyond it. You will always have a home here. I said it before and I'll say it again: your past _does not_ define you."

Gleb gave a little nod that was still heavy with old sorrow.

"Thank you," he said quietly and Mme. Dassin could hear the sincerity in his tone. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek once more, then stood and headed upstairs to his room.

* * *

French Traslation:

Le temps passe vite quand on s'amuse - The French equivalent of "time flies when you're having fun"


	23. Chapter 23

The day was blisteringly hot. When Gleb woke at six that morning, his sheets were damp with humidity, leaving a clammy feeling on his skin long after he was dressed. When he descended to the kitchen a few minutes later, the wave of heat that hit him was like a physical wall and his heart sank. Mme. Dassin and Elena were both red-faced and sweaty, hair sticking to their foreheads and neck. It wasn't long before Gleb looked the same. By noon, they were rotating, each stepping out into the garden for a few minutes to cool down. Cool down was a comparative term however.

"Ugh! It feels like I'm _in_ the oven right now!" Elena panted as she came back inside. "I checked the thermometer and it says that it's ninety-six out. I think if I brought it in here it would shatter."

"Well now you know how the bread feels when you bake it!" Gleb called from his corner.

She huffed out a breathless laugh in return and patted a loaf that was sitting nearby.

"I'm so sorry, bread. Nobody deserves this."

Henri walked in amid the chorus of laughter that followed her statement. He too was red-faced and damp with perspiration.

"Mama, what do you say to closing for the afternoon?" he asked hesitantly. "We could all go to the swimming hole and still be back in time for the dinner crowd."

There was a moment of silence and all eyes turned on the mother who considered the question thoughtfully.

"Do you think that we'd lose much business?" she asked after a moment.

Henri shook his head.

"No one's keen to move around today, let alone come here," he replied.

His mother nodded.

"Alright, let's do it!"

There was a general chorus if excitement and pleasure and she held up and admonishing finger.

"We'll go _after_ lunch hour. I'll pack us a picnic and we can eat by the river."

"If it wasn't so hot, I'd hug you!" Marianne cried, clapping her hands. "Alright, let's get these people their food! The faster we serve, the faster we can go!"

Everyone set to work with renewed vigor and, an hour and a half later, were on their way to the swimming hole. Finding a swimsuit for Gleb had been something of a challenge since he was taller than both of the older boys, but in the end Elena had mostly solved the problem by letting down the hems on a pair of swimming trunks belonging to Henri who was the closer of the two to Gleb's size. The shirt was still too tight, but not much could be done about that. In addition to being taller, Gleb was much broader than either of the boys and still fairly well muscled considering his several month confinement. When he had first came downstairs, flushing uncomfortably at the less the perfect fit, Jean had jokingly covered Marianne and Vera's eyes and ordered him back up again.

There was the inevitable scramble before leaving when the towels were almost forgotten, Vera lost her shoe, Marianne needed a drink of water, and Henri decided to fetch his guitar. It was nearly two in the afternoon by the time they emerged from the little wooded path that led to the swimming hole. It was a natural pool, made where the river had eaten away at its bank around a turn. On the far side where the water was deeper, M. Dassin had constructed a diving board. The younger ones raced each other in and then proceeded to splash those who remained onshore until their mother told them to stop in a voice that Gleb recognized as dangerous. Even the older members of the party were not long in following the children and when Elena dallied to tie her hair back, her brothers teamed up to haul her up and throw her into the water. She screamed, making a magnificent splash that soaked them all, and came up laughing. After that, Vincent, Vera, and Marianne wanted to be thrown in too which resulted in a tossing and splash-making competition. A diving and jumping competition followed for those who were allowed into the deeper water in which Jean emerged the undefeated champion.

For Gleb, it was pure therapy. He had practically grown up on the Iset River and swimming for pleasure was something that he had not engaged in for longer than he could remember. He could practically feel the stress drain out of him as he floated or snuck up behind Elena and splashed her. The latter proved to be a very serious mistake. She had promptly dived and disappeared only to surface behind him and splash him in return. It had turned into an all-out water fight that lasted until Mme. Dassin called them in to a late lunch. Panting, dripping, laughing, they came ashore and devoured the contents of the basket that she had packed.

As they lounged, happy and lethargic, after the meal, Henri pulled out his guitar and began to play. He was a good guitarist and soon they were all singing along to the Russian and French folk songs that he played. Gleb didn't know most of the French ones, but hummed along with the others. After a while, Vera fell asleep, her head pillowed in her mother's lap. Vincent lay on the picnic blanket with his arms folded in a smaller imitation of Jean who was lying nearby. Henri sat cross-legged on the ground, his guitar cradled in his lap. Elena was slouched back, her arms braced behind her for support and Gleb sat against a nearby tree with his legs stretched out in front of him. He sighed in pleasure, crossing his left ankle over his right, and looked at the way the water shimmered as the light danced across it. In the stillness of the riverside, Henri's sudden, sharp intake of breath was painfully obvious.

"_What is that_?" his voice cut like a whip, shattering the calm that enveloped the small party.

Gleb looked at Henri in surprise, then followed the other boy's gaze and felt his heart sink rapidly, swallowing a curse. There, on the inside of his left calf, the black ink of the tattoo was plainly visible against his pale skin: two crossed pistols with the soviet star, hammer, and sickle underneath.

* * *

**A/N: Annnnnnd I'm still late :/ Sorry, you guys. What do you think is coming next for our hero, hm?**


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